The Strength of One Green Leaf
by Kasmi Kassim
Summary: --FLAME OF ANOR Winner-- Thranduil asks Gandalf to make Legolas the happy child he was before his mother's death. But fighting for life and faced with demons of his own, the king must rely on the strength of his Greenleaf to come out of this battle alive.
1. A Welcome Arrival

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Once a child of the sun, now Legolas is a quiet, withdrawn elfling. Thranduil is concerned and asks Gandalf to help his son fight his demons. Can he?

Author's Note: This is my second Lord of the Rings fic. Thanks a lot to those who reviewed my last one! Please R/R!

by Kasmi Kassim

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_**The Strength of One Green Leaf**_

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_**Chapter 1: A Welcome Arrival**_

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The dark forest loomed before him, cavernous and foreboding. What had once been hailed as the beautiful Greenwood the Great was no longer. Gandalf sighed. _So much for the power and splendor of elves._ Where was the old glory, and ancient music of beauty? Since when did this enchanted realm fall to the spreading darkness?

As much as he enjoyed seeing his old friends, he did not enjoy the sight which greeted his eyes during the journey. No, not at all.

A strange scent caught his senses. It was an eerie feeling, hovering like a silent whisper slithering over the damp forest grounds. Gandalf perked up, and quickly reached down to calm his nervous horse. Something was amiss. That was no surprise, considering the evils crawling in this forest – but no, something dangerous was lurking nearby. Waiting for him. Or perhaps seeking him out. He wasn't sure. Gandalf glowered. _Where is a Palantir when you need one? _

Then he felt it. It was coming. Fast. Gandalf tensed. The horse was whinnying madly, stomping on the ground. Gandalf clasped the reins firmly, and held out his staff. He squinted at the menacing darkness before him.

"Come out, you foul devil, and show yourself!"

He felt the chilly breath before he heard the hiss. Tightening his grip on his staff, he stared boldly at the giant spider. It was halfway out of its hiding, standing directly in front of him – its eyes glittered delightfully, as if inspecting its meal before dining. Gandalf's horse bucked in wild terror. Gandalf swiftly reasoned whether it was him or the horse the spider was after. It was decided just as quickly, when the spider lunged forward, that the creature would get neither.

The spider had almost hit its target when it was knocked back with a tremendous blow. The wizard was holding up his staff, proud and strong – and the old gray shaft was shining with a dazzling brilliance. The spider screeched in terror before the blinding light, and scrambled away. Even then it remained in the shadow, eyeing the wizard menacingly.

Gandalf knew the spider would be back, as soon as the light dimmed. He could feel its breath, its eyes lingering. But Gandalf the Gray could not keep up with his fireworks all throughout his passage to the palace. The way was far, and he was weary. He patted and muttered comforting words in Elvish to the frightened horse, while distractedly looking around in the darkness.

"I think it's this way, my friend," he said, more to himself than the horse, as he turned to the left. "Quickly," he urged, as the horse broke into a canter. He needed to cover as much ground as he could before his power gave out.

He had not gone far before he realized that the sun had set. Now the dark forest was even darker, whispering sinister words of evil into his ears. Gandalf frowned. Why was the tangle of twisted trees becoming even thicker? He shuddered involuntarily at a shadow that loomed at a corner of his mind. Perhaps this was not the right direction...

Gandalf cursed under his breath as he felt his strength dimming. The light was fading quickly, and he would soon be enveloped in darkness. Then there would be no stopping those spiders...

The wizard started, and quickly turned around. Did he hear something? He muttered another curse. This was definitely not a good situation to be in. He now wished that he had asked Elrond to send word to Mirkwood ahead of time, so that a party of elves would be dispatched to meet him. Better yet, he could have accepted the company of elves who offered to take him to Mirkwood. But no, he had to decline the kind offer from the Lord of Rivendell and trust only his staff and feeble magic to venture to Mirkwood, alone. He cursed again. _What a fool I am. _

Then he saw it again. The spider. Gandalf raised his staff, but to his dismay it was now flickering with the brightness of a firefly. He uttered a battle cry instead, and charged his horse forward. If anything, he would give it a good, hard swipe and perhaps daze it. A foolish risk, he knew, but there was no other choice. The spider was fast, and the horse would not be able to outrun it in the dark.

"Come on, you filthy creature!"

But the spider flew off to its side with a tremendous force before it ever came into contact with the wizard's staff. Gandalf stared, wide-eyed, as his horse bucked wildly. The next moment was a blur as several more arrows hummed through the air with deadly precision, embedding themselves onto the struggling creature. With arrows flying from all directions, the spider gave a horrible screech; then it fell and moved no more.

Gandalf looked around at the trees. He saw no one, but he knew the shadows watching him with glittering eyes. "I thank you, kind elves, for your aid," he called out. "You saved this old fool just in time."

As silent as the night they were a part of just moments ago, several lithe figures dropped down from trees surrounding him. They were clad in dark green and brown, blending in perfectly with the forest – even their dark hair merged into the deep night that had settled in. In their hands they all held smooth, dark bows; around their waists was a firm strap holding elven swords, the keenest in the land.

The wizard met them warmly, exclaiming elven greetings as the shadows bowed and returned the greetings with humble courtesy.

"I'm afraid our forest did not welcome you with much hospitality," said an elf apologetically, stroking the frightened horse. The horse became still under the elf's calm touch. Gandalf chuckled.

"It was an old man's foolishness. I am most grateful that you heard my horse, young one, for I would surely be a dead wizard by now if you had come a second too late!"

The elf smiled, and looked back toward the others who were scouting ahead. They quickly returned, and gave their sign to go. The elves fanned out, surrounding the wizard's mount protectively. "Let us make haste," said the elf at the lead. "The king will be most happy to see you, Mithrandir."

_And happy I hope I'll make him, _thought the wizard grimly. _To suffer such a loss, at such a young age..._

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"The wizard has arrived."

Thranduil sat up as quick as lightning. "Mithrandir is here?" This was an unexpected surprise.

"Yes." The messenger bowed.

The king of elves gathered his robes and stood. Along the folds of the rich fabric, long threads of golden hair fell lusciously over a well-toned chest. "I will go out to meet him," he announced, his voice clear and strong. The advisors that had been standing on either side of the throne followed as he quickly stepped down from the throne and moved out into the halls.

The king did not need to go far. The wizard was dismounting from his horse, thanking his dark-haired elven companions, when Thranduil met him at the doorsteps of the palace.

"Mithrandir!"

The outburst of joy was an uncharacteristic display from the proud and mighty king. The rest of the elves watched, their dark heads bowed respectfully, while their king rushed forward to embrace the old wizard. Gandalf chuckled.

"I hope I am not presenting a cumbrance to you, my friend Thranduil."

"Not at all, Mithrandir. You know you are always welcome here." The king pulled back, gazing at the wizard with relief and joy. "I have missed you terribly, Gandalf." His eyes softened with an unspoken sadness. Gandalf looked back, an understanding smile sadly playing at his thin lips. He pulled the elf close, embracing him again in silent comfort. His whisper was like a sigh.

"I return too late, my friend. Forgive me."

"Do not speak such things." The king shook his head sadly. He looked like a mere child in the arms of the wizard. "I am not left alone."

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_What a striking image of his mother,_ mused Gandalf, gazing at the tiny creature before him. The golden halo hung in a single braid down his small back, illuminating the light green fabric of the tunic. The pale skin rivaled that of the fairest of elven ladies in Lothlorien, and bright blue eyes hid in a shroud of long, dark lashes. Such a beautiful creature. Such a sad, beautiful creature. He sighed.

"Meet my son," said the king quietly. The elfling raised his bowed head, meeting the wizard's eyes. "Legolas."

"Most honored to meet you, my little prince," smiled the wizard. The elfling bowed again quietly, and glanced at his father.

Thranduil nodded. "You may go now."

The elfling turned on his heels, and as silently as his entrance, left.

Gandalf noted the king watching the disappearing figure sadly. He chuckled and tapped the king's shoulder. "She has left you an extraordinary gem indeed, my friend."

Thranduil sighed. "I am saddened beyond grief every time I see him."

"Do not be, young Thranduil," said the wizard gently. He rested his peaceful gaze upon the king, who lifted his eyes slowly to meet the wizard's gaze with uncertainty. Gandalf smiled.

"He is a rare and precious gift, my friend. Do not grieve. Drive away the darkness in your heart, and rejoice with gratitude."

The elven king shook his head, hanging his gaze dejectedly onto the floor. "It has been only five years, Mithrandir. And Legolas is not so young that he does not remember..."

_Ah, Valar._ Gandalf closed his eyes. In his mind's eye he could still see the sunny beauty that radiated from the queen of Mirkwood. Her laughter was like an ancient music, melodious and smooth. How happy the young couple had been when their child was conceived. How the kingdom had rejoiced. It was now all in the past. There was no more queen of the woodland realm. There never would be another.

"But he is such a wise little elfling," soothed Gandalf, placing a hand on the king's shoulder. "I can see it in his eyes..."

"Ah, if only I could see anything else," the king replied, a bitter smile playing at his lips. He looked into the wizard's gray eyes. "Legolas used to be such a happy child, Mithrandir. Music and delight was everywhere with our little prankster of an elfling around." The chuckle that filled the quiet hall was mirthless. Gandalf squeezed the king's shoulder in sympathy.

"Do not bear guilt for your son, Oropherion," he said gently. "If the prince be truly one of you and the queen's blood, then he will have the strength and wisdom to endure this grief."

Thranduil looked away, sad gaze idly falling outside his glass door leading to the gardens. _I hope so, Mithrandir,_ he whispered silently as he watched a small elfling sit on a stone bench. The bench where mother and son would always sit for a story in a sunny afternoon. _I hope so._  
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_**To Be Continued**_


	2. A Father's Plea

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, save the plot.

Rating: PG-13

by Kasmi Kassim

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_**The Strength of One Green Leaf**_

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_**Chapter 2: A Father's Plea**_

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_"Nana! Ada! Wake up!"_

Light feet danced across the red-carpeted floor of the luxurious halls, sending a vibrant echo of footfalls amid the quiet morning sun. The massive double doors leading to the king's chamber burst open as a little elfling pouted his lips and gave a mighty push. Then he tumbled into the room, prancing across the spacious study. The elfling swiftly reached the open bedchamber, and with a mischievous grin, poised himself like a cat ready to pounce on its prey.

"Nana! Ada!"

He launched himself onto the two sleeping figures, drawing a yelp of surprise. Giggling playfully, he began to shake the two sleepy elves and tumble across the lumps of body beneath the blankets. "Wake up!" he cried happily once again. "You promised we'd go to Rivendell today!"

"Ah, our little Greenleaf is up early," murmured his father, rubbing his eyes sleepily. He slowly sat up and stretched. His wife simply blinked drowsily, and reached out to pat the elfling on his golden head.

"Nana, you must get up too!" exclaimed the elfling impatiently. "Ada said it takes a long time to travel to Rivendell!"

"Yes it does, little one," smiled his mother. She moved her warm gaze to her husband, and reached out to touch his cheek lovingly. "Good morning."

While his smiling father bent down to kiss his wife, the elfling hopped off the bed and scampered to the door. "I'll tell them to get the horses ready!"

"Don't fret, Legolas," his father called out after him. "Our guards must first make sure that the path is safe."

But the child was already gone, swept up in his wind of excitement.

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"Legolas?"

The elfling blinked, large blue eyes slowly regaining focus. He quickly turned, looking up to see the gray-clad wizard approach him with a smile.

"May I join you, young one?"

The elfling nodded, and moved to make room. Gandalf chuckled. There was already plenty of space on the bench before he had asked the prince, as the elfling was very small. Still just a babe.

Gandalf made himself comfortable next to the child. Birds were singing merrily, and the wizard could hear bees droning lazily in the warmth of the sun. He sighed in contentment, gaze idly falling on the garden. It was very peaceful. No wonder the lonely child sought solace here.

"You were thinking, my little prince," said the wizard, looking down at the elfling next to him. A pair of large blue pools looked back curiously. "May I ask what you were thinking of?"

The prince tilted his head, as if contemplating. Gandalf waited patiently, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. _What a marvelous little miracle, this elfling._ He found himself almost envying Thranduil.

Then Gandalf noticed something that had caught his interest since the first day they had met. His eyes..._shouldn't innocent little elflings have happier eyes than that?_ He frowned inconspicuously, leaning over slightly to inspect the pondering child. The bright blue eyes glimmered with a childlike innocence, but there was a looming shadow that refused to be gone. It had probably hooded the elfling ever since his mother's death. Gandalf's heart clenched with sympathy. _Poor, beautiful thing..._

"I was thinking nothing, my lord," answered the prince, after his moment of contemplation. Such a quiet, simple answer. Gandalf frowned deeper. The voice was surprisingly steady for a child, and beautifully melodic. It resonated in the sunlight like tranquil droplets of water. But it was wrong. It was all wrong. This was not the speech of a child. The wizard's heart constricted painfully.

"Nothing, I see," he muttered slowly. Then he noticed the elfling watching him, and managed a smile. "You need not call me that, Prince Legolas." He reached out and lightly patted the elfling's soft cheek. "Call me Gandalf. I wish to be your friend."

Again, the elfling tilted his head thoughtfully. At last he nodded and looked up at the wizard. "Then I shall call you Gandalf. You will call me Legolas?"

The wizard chuckled. "'Tis my honor, Legolas."

A shadow of a smile graced the elfling's lips. But in a flash, it was gone.

The wizard and prince sat together in silence, enveloped in the warmth of the afternoon sun.

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For weeks, Mirkwood had been receiving rain. Not light rain, like the ones that graced Rivendell with shimmering dewdrops and colorful rainbows. Mirkwood rain was dark, heavy, drenching rain. It made the dark forest even gloomier. Only patrols and hunters went out regularly; though elves were not bothered by sickness or dampness, the rain made it difficult to fight the dark creatures of the forest who used the weather to their advantage. Everyone stayed indoors during the heavy downpour, while the king feared that spiders and orcs would be steadily making their way deeper into the forest if guards diminished in the borders. So patrol duty continued in the relentless rain, while the kingdom remained quiet and glum.

"I'm sorry that you have not been able to enjoy outdoors much," apologized Thranduil during a quiet meal with Gandalf. "Mirkwood isn't known for spectacular sights, but we do have quite a bit of safe and lovely lands – it's just the cursed rain that's trapping us all in here."

Gandalf laughed heartily. "I don't mind, my friend," he reassured the king. "My time here is not a least bit dull. I have been keeping myself in good company."

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. "Good company?"

Gandalf laughed even louder. The laughter rang along the quiet halls. Gandalf put down his goblet of wine, and shook his head. "It's your son, good Oropherion," he said in between chuckles. "Your quiet elfling of a son is a wonder to behold and befriend."

Thranduil watched Gandalf, with keen interest and concern this time. Gandalf grinned, looking into his goblet of red wine. "I can see that he will grow to be fair of voice and face, like his parents. He will take after his mother on the build though – a bit slender, and a maybe lacking a little in height – but fear not, my friend, for his strength will rival your greatest warriors, and his speed and agility will have no equal."

The king leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with wonder. "You say he will grow to be a warrior?"

Gandalf chuckled, and sipped from the goblet. "Good wine," he commented. "Strong as always. But you really must ease back on it, my friend, unless you intend to rear your child to be a drinker like you."

Thranduil snorted impatiently. "Ai, why should a proud warrior elf not be hardened to wine? One must be seasoned in all ways – especially my son." With those words he reached out and grabbed the goblet Gandalf was again bringing to his mouth. "Now tell me more about my son."

Gandalf sputtered, and roared with laughter. "Why, aren't you impatient! I thought a father would know more about his son than a mere passer-by."

Thranduil shook his head, dropping his gaze. "What the passer-by sees is different from what the father sees. Legolas fancied healing."

Gandalf stopped his laughter abruptly, an uncertain frown crossing his brows. "Healing?"

The king nodded, and leaned back on his chair thoughtfully. Heavy raindrops could be heard splattering against the castle walls. The hall was quiet, peaceful. Not a single creature seemed to stir in the rainy night of Mirkwood. "He would spend all of his days in the House of Healing, asking questions and getting in the way – he would come to us and say, 'Ada, Nana, I want to be a healer and heal lots and lots of elves when they get hurt!'" The king chuckled. His voice rang in the hall with a note of wistful longing.

Gandalf tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Hmmm," was all he could say. Legolas had a gentle soul; that was evident. He would be a kind and skillful healer, if he took up the art. But the wizard could see no trace of a healer in the quiet elfling. At least, not anymore.

"Help him, Gandalf," pleaded a helpless voice by the wizard's ear. Gandalf thought he heard a tremor in the usually strong tone of the elf. He turned his gaze to meet the eyes of a king – a king who was gripped by fear and pain.

Thranduil was facing Gandalf, looking lost and forlorn. "He is so far away from me – I am no longer certain that I can cross the distance between us." The king reached out and touched the wizard's arm, as if clinging to a last ray of hope. His blue eyes were shimmering with a vast sadness Gandalf had never seen in the noble elf. "He rarely speaks. He is no longer the happy child I used to know."

With a sigh, Gandalf clasped the elf's hand with his own. He looked down at the ageless skin. It was pale, tired. He sighed again and gently rubbed the skin with his wrinkled old hands. "Many things scar us...especially elves, in their infinite lifetime," he said slowly. "We are what we are shaped to be from the events that touch us. But that does not change who we are at heart."

Thranduil did not reply. He watched the wizard, bright blue eyes silent and pleading. He loved his son dearly; he could not bear to see a shadow cross his babe's innocent smile. Valar, what he wouldn't give to have his laughing, merry child back...

Gandalf saw the desperation in Thranduil's eyes. He stroked his hand with paternal warmth. "Your child may have become withdrawn," he said gently. "But events are bound to touch and shape him, and you cannot protect him from all woes of the world." It was a sad, regretful whisper. Thranduil gritted his teeth. Gandalf reached out to gently push a stray thread of golden hair out of the elf's eyes. "Do not fear change, Thranduil, if it is to be a part of your son."

"I want him back, Gandalf," Thranduil blurted sharply, eyes moist with unshed tears. His fist was clenched, revealing intensely white knuckles. "Those wretched monsters not only killed my wife, but are now taking my child away from me!"

Having spat the words, the king's gaze became hazy, as if dissolving into invisible air. With a weary sigh, he leaned forward on the table. Closing his eyes with sudden onslaught of fatigue, he hung his head and did not speak. The splatter of rain grew louder upon the castle walls as the silence in the hall hung like a dense fog. The king did not move.

The wizard reached out to the elf, who seemed to have collapsed into a defeated stillness under the invisible weight upon his lonely shoulders. Gandalf stroked the elf's shoulders gently, closing his eyes in sorrow.

"Please." The hoarse whisper was tremulous, broken. "He is all I have left."

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_**To Be Continued**_


	3. Sorrow, Comfort and Desperation

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, save the plot.

Rating: PG-13

by Kasmi Kassim

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_**The Strength of One Green Leaf **_

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_**Chapter 3: Sorrow, Comfort and Desperation**__  
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_,_So full of questions, as always. _Thranduil chuckled, albeit a bit sadly. Legolas frowned slightly in confusion._Steady voice, Thranduil, _he commanded to himself. _Steady, speak slowly. _"She didn't want to leave, Legolas. She also wanted to see you. But she could not. She had to go."_Not even a hint of accusation,_ mused Thranduil. _Such a little child, and not even a hint. _He shut his eyes tightly and held back the tears that threatened to fall. He combed through the soft hair with slow, deliberate fingers. "Yes," he whispered, daring to let out a quivering sigh. "She had to go quickly." Letting the hair loose, he picked up the comb and began to brush the hair with the same slow deliberateness._  
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"Ada, where is Nana?"

Thranduil looked down to see his small child clinging onto his leg, one hand reaching up to tug at his tunic. The king's glassy gaze slowly focused onto innocent blue eyes mirroring his own, and his ghostly pale face broke into a faint smile. He bent down and scooped up the elfling with ease, and holding the child against his chest with one arm, Thranduil began to walk slowly through the quiet hallway.

"You should be in bed, Legolas," he chided softly.

The child shook his head vigorously and buried it in his father's broad chest. "Not sleepy," murmured his muffled voice. Thranduil smiled, a bit more clearly this time, and stroked the child's head thoughtfully. It was warm – so soft, and alive under his hardened fingers. A small, breathing life, a blessing bestowed upon him as a gift from Valar...

Thranduil closed his eyes and slowly kissed the golden head.

"You are not well yet, little Greenleaf. You must rest."

"But I want to see Nana before I go back to bed." More muffled murmur.

Thranduil's fingers stopped stroking the elfling's head. He blinked, feeling a lump swell painfully in his throat. Swallowing hard, he focused his eyes on the red carpet stretching before him. It seemed to stretch on forever. The silence of the hall was only broken by quiet footfalls.

"Nana can't see you right now, little one. She is somewhere else."

Reaching out with one hand, Thranduil swung open the doors to Legolas' chamber and walked in. The elfling was idly twirling the father's hair when he was gently settled down upon the bed.

"Why did she go somewhere else, Ada?"

Thranduil smiled. "She had to, my little Greenleaf." Careful not to pull away the handful of hair still clutched unconsciously in the elfling's small hand, Thranduil sank down onto the bed next to Legolas. The elfling continued to look up at him expectantly.

"Did she go to Rivendell?"

Thranduil laughed, though a tearful note mingled with his laughter. "No, she didn't go to Rivendell, Legolas."

The child let go of the handful of hair and inched closer to his father. "Then she went to Lothlorien?"

Thranduil shook his head with a smile, eyes shimmering with sadness. "No, little one. She didn't go to Lothlorien."

Legolas tilted his head, trying hard to come up with a location he knew outside of his home. At last he blurted, "Did she go over the mountains?"

Thranduil chuckled, and reached out to stroke the elfling's head. "Yes, she went over the mountains...and over the rivers, and across the plains..." His eyes glazed. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear his hazing vision. Continuing to stroke the soft hair, Thranduil traced the golden strands down to where they hung in a single braid along the child's back. He tugged at the braid gently. "Turn around, little Greenleaf, so that I may loosen your hair."

Legolas obeyed, turning his back to his father. The king shifted into a more comfortable position and, wrapping strong hands around the child's supple waist, lifted him slightly with ease and pulled him closer. Once he was satisfied that Legolas was snuggled close enough, he reached his hand out to the top of the prince's drawers. On the surface of the smooth oak, its reflection glinting in the mirror, was an intricately designed gold comb. The king's fingers hovered for the briefest moment, before grabbing it nonchalantly to turn back to his child. When he placed the comb beside his leg and reached out to the elfling's hair, the lingering light in his eyes was gone.

The king began to unfasten the soft cloth that held the child's braid in place when Legolas voiced his curiosity again.

"But Ada – isn't that very far?"

The king smiled behind his back. "Yes, Legolas. It is very far."

Legolas frowned. Pouting his lips and staring hard at the wooden door across the spacious room, he was drowned in intense contemplation. Finally he lessened the frown, though it still lingered upon his small brows, and tilted his head slightly. "Why didn't she say goodbye to me? She said she would come after me, and we'd go to Rivendell."

Thranduil was silent. His fingers were slowly uncoiling the braid, making their way up higher and higher into the child's soft hair. The silence was deafening in his ears. He swallowed hard, and cleared his throat.

Legolas tilted his head further in deeper confusion and contemplation, causing Thranduil's fingers to brush against the nape of his neck. Large hands gently wrapped around both sides of his head, and straightened it. "Stay still, Legolas, or your head would hurt from tugging."

"Was she in a hurry?"

Legolas began to play idly with the folds of the blanket around him. "When will she be back?" His voice was light, like the jingle of a golden bell.

Thranduil froze. What was he to say to this? Would he have to continue the charade, and tell him the truth when the child was older? But how old would he be, before he tired of fruitless waiting?

He sank into a deep thought. Perhaps he had no choice but to tell the truth. But would Legolas understand? Yes, he had heard that word before – Death – but he had never looked at it in the eye. All he had been told about death was that elves sometimes died during brave battles, and went to the Hall of Mandos. Orcs and spiders died by elven swords and arrows, he knew – but those creatures were bad. Only bad creatures were killed. How would he explain to his innocent sundrop that his Nana was dead? Killed, furthermore, by the very creatures who had to be slain by elven warriors?

Thranduil found himself searching frantically for words. Words he wanted to say, words he didn't want to say, words he had to say – jumbled words that threatened to tumble out, confused words that even he himself could not understand. They were caught in his throat, making it painful to breathe.

"Ada?"

The child turned around, curious at his father's silence. The loose hair fell away from Thranduil's still fingers and streamed down the small shoulders. Legolas looked up at his father, confused. He seemed to not see him. The sharp blue eyes were raging with a maelstrom of unexpressed emotions, an unfamiliar and chaotic storm. Legolas could hear him swallow hard several times. Yet the king made no sound.

Concerned, Legolas tugged at his father's sleeve. "Ada."

"Legolas..." The voice was choked. Thranduil finally focused his gaze on the child's clear blue orbs. Reaching out, he slowly wrapped his arms around the elfling and pulled him close. His lips let out an inaudible sigh as he buried his face in the child's fragrant hair. Captured in the warmth of his father's strong arms, a puzzled Legolas blinked as he felt slow heartbeats pressed against his ears. His curious acuteness also felt his father's painstakingly slow squeeze, as the father breathed a silent, heart-wrenching whisper.

"She is not coming back."

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Gandalf tried to stifle the sound of his footfall as he walked through the long hallway. The palace was eerily quiet. He paused to listen. All he could hear was the heavy downpour of incessant rain, hitting the castle walls mercilessly. He sighed. _Valar, when will this stop?_ He did not enjoy the thought of being confined in these dark halls much longer. But the more frustrating fact was that he could not complain; after all, elves, of all creatures, survived within these suffocating stone walls. The wizard sighed once more and picked up his pace. _Where is that child?_

He had woken up to raindrops beating at the walls of his chamber. The sound was so loud that he finally decided, after many hours of valiant – but futile – efforts, that he would be unable to go back to sleep. He then wandered over to the prince's chambers, smiling to himself at the thought of the sleeping elfling sprawled on his bed. But the room had greeted him with a hush of cold, empty air.

The wizard had since wandered the halls on barefoot, determined the find the elfling.

Looking into this corridor and that, Gandalf realized that the night was strangely unsettled. The guards were tense, the lights were bright, and elven lances gleamed expectantly at every doorstep. Gandalf wondered if the elves were sensing some kind of danger. It was sometimes quite unnerving to be around a race of people who could sense oncoming evil by instinct. It made him feel utterly useless.

_Peace, old fool,_ he reminded himself. _The place is safe; on to find the elfling. _He had promised the king the day before that he would do all in his power to help the young prince, and he intended to hold true to his word.

Gandalf sighed audibly. It seemed to him that it was Thranduil, not Legolas, who was more in dire need of help.

Having heard about the queen's death five years too late, Gandalf had hurried to his friend to find a greatly changed king. Grief had consumed the proud and mighty king and transformed him into a weary, sad-eyed ruler. He could still remember the days when a young Thranduil would stand for hours in Oropher's study, being chastised for overt pride and recklessness. The bright and merry lad had had a fire about him, a fire that burned with robust energy of youth.

Gandalf chuckled at the memory. Yes, young Thranduil had been a handful. His mind was strong; even Oropher's sharp – and quite frequent – admonitions did not deter the youth's pride and confidence. As a warrior, his strength and skills were unmatched; and he never failed to be courteous to ladies and elders. After succeeding his fallen father's throne, Thranduil had rekindled life and vigor in the weary hearts of a war-torn Mirkwood. Under his charismatic and tireless leadership, the fast-dwindling forest realm had survived, its life energy maintained by a thread. Every day was a battle for survival, but the determined king had steeled the kingdom to fight for life, to protect their beloved trees. No one had expected to see the day when the mighty king succumbed to grief.

_Well, at least he is not fading. _Gandalf looked straight ahead, squinting his eyes. Truth be told, the wizard had hurried to his friend in reckless haste, half expecting to find a fading elf. He knew how much Thranduil had loved his queen; the grief of losing her after centuries of courtship and meager decades of marriage was sure to be crushing for an elven soul. However, the sight that had greeted the wizard's eyes was a relatively relieving one. An air of sorrow and quietude hung about the once vibrant court, but the sad king was still strong and firm in his grip upon this world. Gandalf knew that the only link that bound the elf to this life was his child.

_Legolas does not understand death,_ Thranduil had told Gandalf quietly. _He is, however, beginning to understand – that there is no return from it._

Gandalf strode faster, his gray robe flapping vigorously.

_Does he feel abandoned?_

Perhaps.

The relentless patter of rain vibrated through the stone walls. The wizard stopped and listened. The sound was lighter than before. The clouds were clearing.

_Children often feel that way – and blame themselves for the departure of loved ones. _Gandalf had tried to be reassuring. But to no avail.

_Ai, Mithrandir, _the king had sighed, looking at him with sad eyes. _Legolas does not believe me when I say the fault lies not in him. But I cannot claim his guilt wholly unfounded – that is the worst of it._

Wholly unfounded...

_It matters not,_ thought the wizard resolutely. _Well-founded or unfounded, I will not have the innocent seedling shrivel with guilt before even sprouting. _He tightened his grip on his staff. _I will not._

If the young father could not ease the elfling's self-afflicted pain, Gandalf knew there was little else to do. Knowing Thranduil, Legolas was sure to have inherited his father's stubbornness. Gandalf humphed as he began to walk again. _If those young eyes beheld a forbidden realm too soon, it is probably too late for return. _He quickened his pace. _One must proceed forward with courage. _

"Whoa!"

The wizard turned a corner, and bumped straight into an elf. A strong, muscular elf. The elf remained standing where he was, while the wizard stumbled backwards in surprise.

"Mithrandir! What are you doing up so early?" It was the clear, strong voice belonging to none other than Thranduil. Gandalf chuckled, absent-mindedly wiping his brow and gathering his robe folds. He looked up to see the concerned expression of the king, accompanied by several court advisors. Gandalf raised his eyebrow when he saw two fully-armed elves flanking the party. He turned to the king with a smile.

"I was looking for your son, Thranduil. He is not in bed."

Thranduil's eyes came alive at the mention of his son. Gandalf noted with acute awareness how joy, sadness and concern mingled in the brief flash of emotions that crossed the king's fair features.

"Legolas wakes very early these days," said the king, a bit more gently than before. "Would you like me to send for him?"

Gandalf waved his hand dismissively. "No need, kind Thranduil. I was simply seeking company. Besides, I would like to see how a child of the woodland realm occupies himself in such unbecoming weather, trapped within stone walls."

The king smiled at the comment, and glanced back over his shoulder. His gaze was met by a healer, a dark-haired elf dressed in deep green robes. She was among the most powerful healers in the woodland realm, and had always been Legolas' favorite; it was she who had seated the prince on her lap every day and told him about the wonders of the healing arts.

Meeting the gaze of the king, the healer shook her head and bowed. "The prince no longer visits the House of Healing, my lord," she said softly. Thranduil turned back to Gandalf with an indiscernible expression on his face.

"I suggest you try the archery fields, my friend."

The wizard's puzzled expression was met with a sad smile as the king and his advisors bowed and made their way past him. When Gandalf turned around to watch the elves disappear down the long hallway, he thought he caught a glimpse of an elven blade on the king's side.

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Thump.

Blue eyes narrowed as small hands pulled the string.

Thump.

Even heartbeat. Calm breathing. Focus.

Thump.

Slowly. Speed will come in its own time. Aim.

Thump.

Deft fingers released the arrow, letting it fly into the silent air.

Thump.

"Very impressive."

Legolas flinched, as he had been too focused on the bow and arrow to hear the approach of the wizard. When he turned he saw that Gandalf stood not far from him, his head dark under the gloomy skies. The rain had ceased at last, and an eerie fog had begun to cloud the night.

Gandalf smiled as he began to walk toward Legolas, his staff wading through the wet grass. The prince greeted him with a respectful bow.

"When did you start learning archery, Legolas? It is indeed a fine skill you demonstrate with those small hands." The wizard chuckled as he looked over the elfling's head. On the target were all of the prince's arrows, neatly embedded on the board. They were all quite close to the center.

"I am still very much lacking in skill," was the elfling's modest reply. His quiet voice held a quality of stillness, hanging in the hushed black air.

Gandalf smiled in spite of himself. He could see that the child's fingers were familiar with the bowstring, and that his bright blue eyes glittered in the darkness when aiming his arrow. He studied the elfling again, watching the expressionless blue eyes scan the far trees of the forest.

"Your father told me that you wished to be a healer," Gandalf said abruptly, beginning to move deliberately among the wetness of the grass. The prince looked up at him, his expression shifting to a strange, void mask, as he followed the wizard to the target. Gandalf stole a glance downward and almost frowned at the prince's unfocused gaze. Perhaps Thranduil had been right in his worries. Something was amiss. A piece of innocence, a large part of his youth, had been overwhelmed by the gray shadows of something else. Guilt, anger, sadness, he did not know. But it was suppressing the child in Legolas.

"I don't wish to be a healer anymore."

No emotion laced the quiet reply, but it was not empty either. It was just a simple statement of a child. But that was precisely what bothered Gandalf.

Feigning disinterestedness, he slowed to a stop when they reached the target and watched the elfling pull out the arrows expertly.

"And why, my dear Legolas, have your wishes changed?" A light, casual question.

Legolas stopped inspecting an arrow, and tilted his head in contemplation. His brow furrowed, eyes softening conspicuously. The porcelain mask of unreadable expression melted into that of a lost, helpless child. Gandalf dared a sharp intake of breath. Perhaps this was the expression the elfling had worn when he encountered Death...

"The bow and arrow sing to me in a way herbs do not," said the elfling at last, words slipping out slowly. "I feel no such affinity with medicine."

The wizard smiled. "I see," he mused, stroking the elfling's golden head. The thickening mist was making it hard to see the child's glimmering blue eyes. "Do you then wish to become an archer, Legolas?"

The elfling fell into contemplation again. Then he shook his head. "No, I had not thought about that."

"You simply find solace in the bow and arrow, then," observed the wizard. He pulled out the rest of the arrows from the target and handed them to Legolas. "Your soul is troubled, young one, but I am afraid archery alone will not heal you."

The prince looked up with a puzzled expression. For the first time, Gandalf realized just how young this creature was. His quiet and thoughtful demeanor did make him appear older than he really was – but no, this was just a child. A babe, just beginning to dawn on the fact that his mother was somewhere far away, never to return. Gandalf reached out and tenderly touched his pale cheek. "You need not suffer alone."

A wild array of mixed emotions tumbled across the child's features, as he widened his eyes and looked up into the wizard's kind gray eyes. Then he slowly shook his head, taking a step back. "I don't understand what you speak of," he whispered.

Gandalf raised his eyebrow, and then tilted his head thoughtfully. "Truly, perhaps you do not."

The prince looked around uneasily. But he did not step further away from the wizard; that was not how he had been taught. He tightened his grip on the small bow in his hands, and stood still. Waiting.

He heard the wizard's heavy robe shifting in the grass. Legolas tensed.

The wizard stepped closer, and knelt upon the grass, leveling his eyes with the prince. Unable to meet the penetrating gaze of the wizard, Legolas looked about with apprehension almost akin to panic.

With a sympathetic smile, Gandalf held the elfling's golden head between his wrinkled palms. "Speak to me, child. Your father grieves at your silence." A flinch, and added tension in the small shoulders. Gandalf gently raised the elfling's slowly bowing head, looking straight into the child's wildly forlorn eyes.

Legolas avoided his gaze, the young and vulnerable barrier tumbling down under the wizard's scrutiny. His voice was a lost whisper. "I know not what you want me to say."

"It is painful to hide in darkness, if you are an elf," said the wizard gently, probing the elfling's eyes with his own. "Especially if you are an elfling."

The elfling swallowed. Gandalf smiled sadly.

"What is it that ails you, my friend?"

The elfling looked away. There was a prolonged silence. At last he whispered, "I do not know."

Gandalf followed the prince's gaze. It was resting on the garden. He turned back to look at Legolas.

"Your demons are but fleeting phantoms of the night, Legolas. Believe it, and ease your fear."

The child looked at him in a flash, his eyes once again turbulent with flying emotions. Gandalf sighed and rested his hands on the child's small shoulders. Gray eyes looked searchingly into the pair of blue. He squeezed the elfling's shoulders.

"I don't know what to believe," whispered the child, his eyes quivering, wanting to look away once more. Yet he did not.

"Believe in your father, young friend," murmured the wizard, gently touching the child's cheek once again. "The love he holds for you, the love your mother held for you." He soothingly tucked away a tuft of baby hair behind a small pointed ear. "They will grieve to see you thus, little one."

At those words, the rigid tension in the child cracked. Tears slowly filled large young eyes. The air suddenly seemed bitingly cold, as the icy mist embraced the sparkle in the bright blue depths.

Looking searchingly into those eyes, Gandalf smiled. His voice was barely above a whisper as leathery fingers caressed the elfling's cold cheeks. "My dear Legolas, shed this burden that you do not deserve. Your young heart has carried it long enough."

"But-" The elfling's lips trembled. He was clearly crumbling, hit by wave after wave of fresh agony. "Nana...I..."

The wizard shook his head. Legolas bit his quivering lip hard; heavy tears finally fell from hazy blue orbs, leaving a shimmering trail along the round, porcelain cheeks.

"You poor, sweet child," whispered Gandalf, his gray eyes full of emotion. Pulling the elfling close, he enveloped the shaking body in his arms. "Do not bear guilt for loss of loved ones. They would not wish it."

"But-" The muffled voice was broken, trembling in the folds of the old wizard's robe. Gandalf tenderly stroked the head buried in his chest. _How strong you are, sweet Legolas. _

"Give them instead," he whispered, "a loving farewell. Carry with you not guilt nor grief, but fond memories. Then they continue to live in you, dear little one. They live in you."

A mournful wail of a child could be heard in the tranquil morning air.

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Thranduil furrowed his brow and listened intently. The splatter of rain had long disappeared beyond his senses. Had the rain finally stopped? He gave a mental sigh of relief. Finally, some serious patrolling could begin. The encroaching evil was dangerously close to the elves' home grounds. Orcs and spiders and whatnot have expanded their territories during the weeks of rain, aided by the diminished patrolling and hunting in the forest. The king and his advisors, awakened by the fell voices in the air, had ended their discussion with the decision to strike as soon as possible. _If rain does not return by morn,_ thought Thranduil, _I will dispatch a scouting party. Then the real hunting will begin._

He fingered his sword, nerves alert as the night air tensed. The court advisors were standing around him, eyes glittering, bodies rigid with attention. The whole elven realm was aware of the fast-approaching danger. Thranduil was mapping out a battle strategy in his mind's eye when the doors to the great hall burst open and an elven sentinel came running in. The king and his court looked up in anticipation and dread.

"Sire! Orcs attack from the south!" the warrior panted, before bending over to gasp for breath. A smudge of red was slowly surfacing on his elven armor.

Thranduil stood. The hall buzzed with commotion; the attack was sooner than expected. The king looked down at the weary warrior, swiftly estimating the number of elves who would be immediately needed in the forefront. "How many?" he demanded.

"Two hundred at least," panted the sentinel. He looked around wearily. "I heard spiders too, my lord."

Thranduil frowned. Orcs alone could be destroyed easily. However, teamed with spiders...that was a different matter. He cursed under his breath. If only the rain had stopped sooner! _Well, at least the rain did stop. _He ordered a servant nearby to escort the warrior to the House of Healing, and turned to the elven commander of arms, who stood ready for orders. "Pool the tree archers from the northern towers," he ordered. "Do not engage in close range combat unless our home is endangered."

The commander bowed curtly and left. The hall filled with a tense silence.

Then a meek voice spoke. It was the healer. "Are you sure we need that many, my lord? Surely spiders present an additional challenge, but so many elves against the given number of orcs..."

Thranduil turned sharply. "I will _not_ risk lives of our warriors," he hissed. "No – not_ one!_"

The court became silent again. The healer bowed her head, and the king moved down from the throne, briskly making his way to the door. "Send guards to Mithrandir as well. He is a guest and must be protected. And find my son."

More elves hurried off to numerous directions as Thranduil strode to stand on a stone balcony, scanning the woods below. Far away he could see a swarming mass of black. _Orcs. _He narrowed his eyes. _Spiders as well._ He fingered the scabbard of the blade at his side. _Well, they will pay – for everything._

"Sire!"

He whirled around at the panicked tone that intruded his lookout. A dark-haired elf, pale as sheet, stood at the doorway. In his hand he held a small basket, which Thranduil immediately recognized to be an arrow container used in archery practice. Thranduil's pupils dilated.

"Legolas..." the voice was a hoarse whisper as the father stumbled toward the shaking elf.

"He has disappeared, my lord."

The king's vision blurred as his feet carried him down the hallway leading to his room. His steps became faster and faster, until he was flying down the corridor, the royal garb slashing the air. Voices called after him, and footsteps followed as well; yet the king heard nothing. He burst into the room, his long fingers trembling as they unfastened the rich robes around his waist. He moved quickly to the far side of the chamber, discarding his robes along the way, and grabbed the gleaming black bow that hung on the wall. He swung up a quiver of arrows that leaned against the corner of the wall, and quickly strapped it onto his back.

When armed elves rushed to the doorway of Thranduil's chambers, they found their king wearing only a thin tunic and a cloak under a bow and quiver of arrows. His blue eyes were bright with cold fire as he unsheathed and studied his long elven blade. Then he whirled around and swept out of the room.

"Your horse is ready, sire," said a low voice from his right. "Mithrandir has gone after him, and left a trail for us to follow. It starts from the archery fields and enters the forest."

The king nodded as he quickened his pace. He clenched his sword, setting his jaw. _Ah Valar,_ he uttered silently, glancing at a portrait hanging on the wall. It was a portrait of a beautiful elven maiden, with deep blue eyes sparkling with laughter and golden hair streaming down in ethereal glory. _Don't take him away from me..._

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_**To Be Continued**_


	4. Run

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, save the plot.

Rating: This story is PG-13, but this particular chapter may be considered R for those who have sensitive stomachs and vivid imagination. You have been warned!

by Kasmi Kassim

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_**The Strength of One Green Leaf**_

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Chapter 4: Run

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The forest was darker than Legolas had imagined. The elfling slowed to a halt, and looked around. He could feel that dawn was not afar; the fog was heavy and damp upon his skin. Legolas squinted through the night. The fog and the darkness made it difficult to see. The trees looked unfamiliar and scary in the dark. And the voice...the voice was gone.

"Nana?" he called, hope brightening his nervous features. He gripped his small bow tight, and looked around. The sodden ground swallowed up his feet with ravenous appetite, having been battered by relentless rain for weeks. Legolas wrinkled his nose, and trudged on.

"Nana," he called again. An edge of anxiety laced his voice.

Legolas looked about uneasily. The trees were whispering something dark and foreboding in hushed voices. The dark air chilled him to the bone. He clutched his bow even tighter. Where was Nana? He was sure he had heard right. The voice that had so often called his name. The musical laughter, the gentle voice. And the scream.

Legolas' heart began to pound fast. Had he lost her again? But this was the same path they had taken on that day – the path directed at Rivendell.

Legolas took a deep breath, looking out into the darkness again. What if she had been here all this time, while everyone believed her to be lost?

At this thought, the elfling's feet began to move automatically. "I'm coming Nana," he called out as he ran deeper into the forest. "Don't go!"

The thick fog swallowed the child as he quickly disappeared into the sinister darkness.

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Gandalf growled in frustration. He had been tracking for Valar knew how long, and yet there was no good news coming his way. _I shouldn't have let him go, _he chided himself silently. _I am such a fool. Should have seen it coming, with this evil fog. _

With another effort at patience, he bent over the wet earth and inspected the trail. He could barely make out the footprints of the light-weighted elfling; he had the rain-trampled dirt to thank for what little clue it did provide.

Slowly making his way through the tangle of trees and bushes, Gandalf wondered once again why Legolas had acted the way he had. The prince had finished crying, the wizard had wiped his tears and smiled at him – all was well, and Gandalf was ready to walk back into the castle with the elfling. But something had stirred in the air; he did not know what, but he was sure of it, for the elfling beside him stopped abruptly. Before Gandalf could question his behavior, he cried, 'Nana!' and sped into the ominous darkness of the forest.

Gandalf growled once again. Legolas was swift; the elfling could no doubt make his way through the mesh of thorns and branches quicker than the old wizard. He may have lost the prince already, for all he knew. Gandalf looked up into the trees and gripped his staff firmly. Somewhere in the darkness lurked a great deal of dangerous creatures. Yet he dared not use his magic to brighten the way, for that would give away his presence. It was likely that Legolas, despite his age and lack of experience, would be able to slip into the forest unnoticed; Gandalf did not want to put the elfling in danger by awakening the creatures of the night. The wizard grunted and quieted his footfall as he hurried along a small path laid out before him.

_Where is that elfling?_ He glanced back over his shoulder, frustration building in his veins._ And what is taking his father so long?_

Things were becoming more dangerous by the minute. The longer Legolas stayed out here, he knew, the less chance he had of survival.

The wizard hastened on through the obscure darkness. He knew he would have to save his strength; he may need his magic later.

Gandalf desperately hoped things would not come to that.

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Legolas looked around, bewildered. Had he not heard his mother's voice? Surely it was her. He knew her voice by heart. But why was she not here?

Every time he ran closer, it seemed that she would move away farther, laughing and calling for him to follow. Was this some kind of trickery of the mind? He clutched his bow tighter, cold sweat breaking out upon damp skin.

"Legolas," called the soothing voice again. He turned, eyes brightening with joy. But there was no one there. No deep, sparkling blue eyes. No tumbling golden hair. No warm hands reaching out. The elfling's spirit fell. And suddenly, Legolas felt very tired. And afraid.

"Nana," he called out once more. The weak, helpless voice dissipated into the hungry darkness. Legolas slowly sank to his knees, hanging his head. He was far away from home, and from safety. He was lost in a dark place where evil monsters roamed. And he was very much alone.

"Ah, look at the poor little elfling."

Legolas jerked his head up, and sprang to his feet reflexively. He looked wildly about. A low chuckle could be heard among the trees. The prince tensed, and stared with anticipation through the dense fog.

Slowly, black shadows moved. Legolas suddenly moved back, eyes widening. He was surrounded by big, horrible creatures – he had seen them before. On that day, when they were traveling to Rivendell. These monsters had been there – they had come with spiders. The prince's breath was quick and short as he swiftly reached back to pull an arrow out of his quiver.

Orcs.

Cold fear crept into his senses as Legolas remembered what his father had told him about the semi-magical creatures that bordered the fringes of their forest. They use foul tricks, Thranduil had told him. They imitate the voices of their unfortunate victims to lure innocent creatures to their doom. They are evil and deserve no mercy.

The elfling's eyes narrowed in anger as he carefully aligned the arrow with the bow. Why had he not seen it before? His father had reminded him countless times to never go out into the forest alone. Especially at night...

"Are you looking for your Nana?" snickered one of the orcs surrounding him. Legolas quickly turned to point his arrow at him. His bold stare seemed to greatly amuse the orcs, for they burst into laughter.

"What brilliant hair you have," smirked another orc. He moved closer to the prince. "You must be the litter of that she-elf from long ago, and that...Thranduil," he mused, reaching out to touch the child's golden hair. Legolas swiftly turned his arrow point at this orc, backing away slowly.

The orc snickered. "Are you scared, elfling? Aren't you looking for your Nana?" His eyes glimmered with dark malice. "We can tell you where she is."

Legolas stepped further back, his eyes never leaving the enemies surrounding him, until he found himself standing against an aged tree. The twisted bark of the trunk bit into his skin through the light tunic. "I don't believe you." The child's voice stung with cold ferocity.

Another howl of laughter ensued. Legolas looked around, struggling to swallow down his anxiety. The orcs were nearing him slowly, completely cutting off all routes of escape. He bit his lip as a resolute gleam of determination settled in his eyes. He steadied his aim upon the chest of the biggest orc. If they left him no way out, he would make one.

"Are you going to shoot?" exclaimed the orc, in mock surprise. "Shoot, if you want! Let's see how well you kill." Another fit of laughter.

Legolas swallowed. He didn't find this situation humorous. Why were these orcs laughing? Weren't they afraid? Legolas furrowed his brow. Maybe they were not afraid because they knew he was no match for all of them. Maybe...because he could not kill them.

Legolas risked a glance at the tip of his arrow. Was he capable of killing? If he shot the arrow into the heart of an orc, instead of a painted target, would the orc die?

If the orc died, where would he go? Would he go to the Hall of Mandos?

"I think the poor elfling is scared." The amused voice was right next to his ear. Legolas jumped away, eyes wide, and quickly pointed his arrow at the orc that had snuck up from the side. The orc simply tilted his head.

"Such a pity. You will kill us all without finding your Nana?" Laughter crackled again, and Legolas's knuckles whitened around his bow. Who did these horrific creatures think they were? He gritted his teeth, but reminded himself that these orcs had imitated the voice of his mother. Then that meant they had heard her voice...

The child's teeth bit on soft lips painfully. What if they did know? After all, it had only been five years, and his hair had only grown a finger's length since then. Perhaps she could be found. Perhaps...

"Where is she?" The childlike voice was shaky but demanding. The orcs snickered among themselves, elbowing one another knowingly. The orc from his side stepped closer, and stretched his arms out toward the dark sky. He gave a gleeful yelp.

"She is right where you left her, of course!" Shrieks of laughter followed. "We can take you there, if you want."

Legolas narrowed his eyes. Never trust them, Thranduil had told him. Never trust anyone who is not an elf.

"You lie."

Abruptly the laughter stopped; all dark eyes turned threateningly toward the small elfling who boldly stood his ground.

"Do you think so, elfling?" The voice was menacing. Legolas flinched, but did not loosen his grip on the bow. The orc approached him, slowly. "Do you really believe you can shoot that, little elf?" He tilted his head. A bitter, hard smile came to his lips. "You can't kill. You don't know what death is."

The air was hushed. Legolas swallowed nervously. He had never shot an arrow into living flesh before. He was sure it would hurt.

"I can take you quickly, little one," continued the orc, amidst the silence. "I can bring you faster than the wind to where your Nana went."

Legolas glared again at the mention of the name. "Where did she go?" he demanded skeptically.

Again, snickers could be heard here and there. "How cute, the elfling doesn't know where his Nana went..." "Maybe we should keep him as a pet..." "Surely would be fun to play with..." "Not every day you come across little elves..."

Legolas looked around, alarmed at the content of the leaking pieces of conversation. He readjusted his grip on the bow. The night felt intensely hot, as the chill of the fog licked his small form. His palm was slick with sweat. "Stay away," he warned.

"Then shoot." The orc spread his arms wide. "If you can."

Thump!

Shock replaced amusement as the orc staggered a few steps back. Before him the elfling stood, hands frozen in midair. A hush fell into the mist.

The orc slowly raised his arm, gingerly fingering the arrow that protruded from his chest. His eyes were disbelieving as his fingers traced the blood that ran down his body.

"You..." The breath came out in ragged gasps. He slowly fell; then he moved no more.

Amid the silence, Legolas stared at the black puddle of blood, bewilderment tumbling about his young face. What had he done? What just happened? He looked at his hands. He had not thought of releasing the arrow. He did not intend to kill. But the orc was trying to hurt him.

But...

Legolas shifted unconsciously. Something was blinking in his mind. Some taboo knowledge, a forbidden truth. He felt that he knew what it was; he could almost grasp it, but it continued to blink erratically, barely out of the mind's reach.

But not for long. He knew what it was. The blinking – it had stopped, but now Legolas wished, cold dread sinking into his stomach, that it had not. This was what it looked like – Death.

The child swallowed hard. A shiver ran up his spine; slowly, hauntingly, it spread through his body and gripped him with a feeling he did not understand. Fear. Horror. Dread. Legolas did not know what to name this new emotion that came with the knowledge that he, his father's sweet little Greenleaf, had killed a living creature.

Legolas slowly approached the fallen figure. Had he killed him in just one shot of an arrow? Was this – swift and thoughtless killing – was this what the archery practices were about? Is this how Nana had...died?

Legolas' body felt heavy and cold. Eyes rooted on the unmoving body on the ground, he slowly reached out with a shaky hand – and stopped.

Raising his head to meet the shocked gazes of the surrounding orcs, Legolas quickly glanced at the hole in the circle of orcs. He jumped to his side, and in a blinding motion, whizzed past the stunned creatures.

The orcs broke out of their stupefied stares. "After him, fools!" cried an angry orc, as they hurriedly moved to catch the elfling.

Legolas heard the arrow, but not soon enough. He swung wide to the right, and stumbled when he felt a burning pain ripping through his left shoulder blade. With a startled cry, the elfling fell to his knees; that was enough for the orcs. They pounced, and soon the elfling was pinned unto the muddy ground, struggling under the weight of his captors.

"Let me go!" The child screamed in rage, thrashing about madly. The weight upon his body made movement excruciatingly painful, but he forced his muscles to twitch, to writhe, to find any way out of their grip. They were bad. They were hurting him, and they wanted to hurt him more. They had done bad things to his mother. It was their fault. It wasn't his fault; it was theirs. All their fault.

He screamed again, this time in pain, when the shaft of the arrow protruding from his shoulder broke against the sodden ground, allowing the sharp point to bury itself deeper into his tender skin.

"Stop your screaming, little slug!" An orc clamped his huge hand upon the child's small mouth. Muffled screams ensued, followed by more kicking and thrashing, as the orcs tried to subdue the violent little creature.

Suddenly the orc who had been gagging Legolas yelped in pain. He jumped up and howled, clutching his hand. Down his wrist slid black streams of blood.

"You little-"

"Serves you right, fool," snickered another orc, as he grabbed the elfling's braid of hair and jerked him upright into a sitting position. "We need him to speak; we need his voice." He gazed into the eyes of the elfling. Other orcs surrounded them, tightly restraining the child's small limbs.

Legolas glared at the smirking orc with intense blue fire in his eyes. He spat black blood onto the face of the orc and received a harsh slap in return. He felt the taste of his own warm blood. The fact that he bled red, unlike the orcs, was a grim and meager solace.

"Temper like that she-elf," muttered the orc, wiping his face. He yanked a handful of the child's golden braid once again, drawing a cry of pain. "Your royal family sure stands out from the rest."

Legolas glared again, and muttered something in a language the orcs did not understand. He received another harsh blow upon the face. He bit back a cry, and glared at the orc. Then he threw his head back unto the night sky and screamed an ancient incantation of a curse in the incomprehensible tongue.

"Silence, you!" In a flash, Legolas landed hard on his back. He struggled in a defiant attempt to raise himself up, but screamed again in hot pain when rough hands pushed him down by the stubby arrow shaft lodged in his shoulder.

"I could be nice, little one," hissed the orc, close to his ear. Legolas desperately squirmed, turning away from the foul breath. "I can take you to your Nana..."

"You lie!" the child cried again, and with renewed vigor despite the painful wound, began to thrash violently. "You killed her!"

A wild echo of laughter filled the dense forest air. The orcs were howling with glee, unable to contain their amusement. Legolas took the chance to quickly sit up. Though his breath was ragged from pain, the elfling's eyes burned with intense hate.

"We killed your Nana? And what do _you_ know about killing, little one? What do_ you_ know about Death?" An orc from the side laughed.

"No, little elfling, we aren't the ones who killed your Nana." The orc before him leaned closer, eyes gleaming darkly. Legolas stared back. "The one who killed your Nana was you."

Legolas blinked, staring at the orc in disbelief. What did this monster think he was saying? His eyes narrowed in anger, and keeping the hateful gaze upon the orc before him, he screamed again.

This time, the blow was hard. Very hard. The elfling gasped, and sank into the ground. Air refused to come into his lungs; breathing became painfully laborious, and his eyelids began to feel unbearably heavy. _Don't fall asleep,_ he whispered to himself ferociously. _If you fall asleep, Ada won't be able to hear you. Keep awake. Keep screaming._

"We really must silence this creature before he awakens the whole forest," mumbled an orc from afar. "Will you hurry? We can play once we get further away from the palace."

The orc that had struck Legolas bent down to inspect the hazy, unfocused eyes. "He sleeps," he announced, and grabbed him roughly by the collar. "We will take him – he is surely the elf-king's son." He stood.

It was then that a sudden flash of white light tore through the trees. The dark creatures shrieked in terror as the blinding rays fell upon them. The elfling was dumped unceremoniously onto the ground.

From the dazzling brightness stepped out the gray-clad form of the wizard. Gandalf stood before the panicking orcs, stern eyes scouring through the numerous bodies occupying the clearing. His gaze then fell upon the helpless heap of an elfling on the ground. He hurried toward the hunched body.

"Back, old slime! He is mine!" screamed one of the orcs, lunging at the elfling. But he was met with a more brilliant explosion of light, as he found himself knocked hard across the head in a swift stroke. He yelped and blindly scrambled away, whimpering in pain.

Gandalf reached down and lightly shook the still form. "Awaken, young Thranduilion." His voice was gentle but urgent.

Legolas stirred, a feeble moan escaping his lips. Gandalf grabbed his arm and began to pull upward, but dropped the arm with surprise when the elfling cried sharply in pain. The wizard's eyes widened at the sight of blood running down the length of the elfling's body. Legolas panted, eyes watering, and slowly gathered himself. Gandalf watched grimly as the elfling gritted his teeth and stood, somewhat shakily. Then the pair of blue orbs turned to the wizard, and widened in pale disbelief.

"Gandalf." The whisper was voiceless.

The wizard reached out with one hand and held the prince close, while continuing to hold up his glowing staff with the other hand. The brilliance of the light was fast burning out. He slowly bent down and brought his mouth close the elfling's ears. The chilly darkness stilled as he breathed a fierce whisper.

"Run."

Legolas obeyed.  
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_**To Be Continued**_


	5. Cry of the King

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, save the plot. Yes, the plot is mine.

Rating: PG-13

by Kasmi Kassim

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_**The Strength of One Green Leaf**_

_**,**__**  
Chapter 5: Cry of the King**_  
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Thranduil started, turning his horse abruptly to his side. The animal shifted restlessly as the king lifted his gaze to the distant horizon, furrowing his brow in a moment of uncertainty. His heightened senses had picked up a faint sound dissolving into the dark night sky. However, the fleeting echo was quickly overwhelmed by horse hooves pounding the ground. Thranduil turned his head sharply as a warrior appeared from another direction. The king's expectant gaze rested on the approaching elf with experienced coolness.

"The orcs are being driven back, sire," called the elf, easing his horse to a halt. "Orders have been sent to dispatch spider hunters as well."

The king grunted softly in acknowledgement, eyes now set on the distant trees once more. "Prepare another hundred for reinforcements."

The elf turned his horse around swiftly, and glanced at the king with assured familiarity. "Annihilation, my lord?"

Thranduil nodded slightly as he turned his horse away, poising his body for another burst of speed. "I will join you once I am finished here." The words swept the forest grounds as the king promptly spurred his horse into a thick tangle of bushes. The squad of warriors followed with equal speed.

The path was narrow. Through the darkness, thorns and bushes mercilessly assaulted the hurrying warriors. The clearing they reached at last was a welcome relief for the horses, as they quickly spread about, neighing softly and shaking their shrub-sprinkled manes in annoyance. The elven warriors scanned the ground, and suddenly glanced at one another in alarm.

The thick sponge of soggy dirt ended here. The ground was laced with pebbles and roots, washed clean and smooth by the rain. The clearing offered numerous narrow paths, but Gandalf's trail was now nowhere to be found. It had vanished with the mud.

Without a word, the elves jumped off of their mounts and began to search on their knees for the trail of the wizard. A frightful tension hung in the air; the silence that refused to be broken gave testimony to fruitless effort.

Thranduil bit his lip as the heat of his pumping heart rose. His eyes easily spotted at least five or six mangled paths right away. Glancing back at the elven warriors spread about him, the king furrowed his brow in intense concentration.

There were no more than twenty. Twenty elves – formidable enough to defend themselves against any moderately large band of orcs. But if separated...

Thranduil stared at the thick mist laid out before him. If he divided the party according to the number of paths, their abilities would not be enough to protect the prince from the evils that had swept into these lands along with the orc attack. But leading them all into one path was extremely perilous; the party was clearly far behind already, and if they picked a wrong direction, all would be lost.

The warrior king straightened his back and jumped onto his horse. His decision was swift, the risks and stakes already weighed. "We will separate into three," he called, pulling the reins of his horse and turning the animal sharply. "Spread out, and cover as much of each other's paths as possible. I will follow this-"

Suddenly a laughter rose in the air, breaking his words. The king froze.

A horse whinnied, pounding the ground with its hoof. Its rider quickly rushed to it and stroked the long neck, whispering comforting words to quiet the restless animal. The rest of the elves glanced about uneasily.

Then the voice came again. This time, it was a scream.

Thranduil's face became ashen, his heart burning upon recognition.

_Legolas._

Quick as lightning, the elves simultaneously jumped onto their mounts and sped into the eastward path.

Then they slowed.

Another scream came, this time from the north. The elves looked around through the thick fog in alarm and confusion, certain that this was also the prince's voice. But how did he move away so quickly?

Thranduil stared ahead, hard eyes glittering intently, listening to another cry from yet another direction. It was calling out for him.

The king slowly turned his head toward the squad behind him. The elven warriors' eyes met with the same dread-filled confirmation.

"Orcs."

Silence befell the party. The air trembled as the elfling's voice multiplied, combining into a frenzy of sounds and tumbling wildly about.

"Where are you, Ada?"

"Sing to me, Nana!"

"Ada! Look! Come this way!"

The archers looked toward the king, fear and uncertainty plain on their faces. The horses were clearly agitated; they whinnied and bucked, shaking their manes furiously and tugging at the reins in irritation. The riders' soothing words and stern admonitions did not quiet the animals as they usually would have. The apprehension of the beasts soon began to infect the elven riders as well, as they glanced at one another uneasily and passed whispers amongst themselves in hushed voices. Debating which way to go, which one was the real prince. Questioning if the orcs were trying to distract them from something else. Not one daring to voice the dark fear looming in the shadowed corners of their minds – that it may already be too late.

The voices grew stronger, each fighting to be heard. Throughout the hectic discourse, the king was mutely staring into the darkness. His glassy eyes were unfocused, great swirls of emotion crashing against the crystalline glitter of the orbs. The elves' confused disquietude began to grow in volume, simultaneous to the growing chaos of voices intermingling in high-pitched innocence.

"Aren't you coming, Ada?"

"Wait for me, Nana!"

Thranduil's heart pounded ferociously against his ribcage. He had not felt a fear like this even during the great war that had ravaged his people's land. Not even when Death laughed at his face, nor when it claimed his invincible father, did he feel such sharp, heart-wrenching terror.

The evil creatures had gotten to his son; they had heard his scream. And now, they were taunting him with it.

The king gritted his teeth in bloody force.

_Ah Valar, don't do this to me..._

"Nana! Ada!"

The anguished cry that tore through the dark skies shook Thranduil savagely. He swallowed hard and, shivering violently, bent over and gripped the horse's neck for support. The elves abruptly halted their murmurs to turn alarmed gazes toward the hunched figure. Hopelessness and panic began to emerge from the fair warriors' faces as their king paid them no heed and continued to stare with unseeing eyes, the usually neat hair streaming carelessly down his shoulders.

He was reliving the nightmare. The nightmare of five years ago, the seeping darkness that stained his mind and refused to drain away even now. He had lost half of his soul that day; and now, as the same scenario unfolded before his eyes, the nightmare tauntingly replayed itself, cruel grip secure around the other half of his soul.

Thranduil gave a hot, tremulous sigh. He could not live if the remaining half was also wrenched away.

Slowly, the king squeezed his eyes shut. Agonizingly, as the pulsating sounds screamed into his eardrums. Cold sweat sheathed his body in a sheen of silver.

The voices grew louder, higher. The king dug his fingers into the horse's mane. There were Legolas' voices everywhere; they were surrounding the party. The orcs were spread about, each of them with his precious child's musical voice lingering on its foul tongue.

Laughter, questions, screams. Everywhere.

A low growl emanated from deep within his throat. The king slowly raised his gaze, staring ahead with glassy eyes shining bright.

The monsters were biding their time, waiting for him to take the bait and run blindly away from his child. While he frantically searched in vain, the innocent life would be tortured to death – slowly and painfully – calling and waiting to the end for the father who would never come. The king viciously clutched the horse's mane; his knuckles whitened as the voices crashed into his throbbing head, wave after wave. He slowly raised a trembling hand. No torment could rival this pain.

Thranduil threw his head back and screamed, despair ripping through every shred of the cry in boundless misery.  
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_**To Be Continued**_


	6. I Shall Fear No Evil

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, save the plot. Yes, the plot is mine.

Rating: PG-13

by Kasmi Kassim

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,

_**The Strength of One Green Leaf  
**__**,**_

_**Chapter 6: I Shall Fear No Evil**_  
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Legolas faltered, energy rapidly draining from his small legs. Quickly catching himself before stumbling onto the dark soil, the elfling bent down with a gasp as a wave of nausea shook his small form. He trembled, hugging himself. The dense fog cradled his form with a chilling caress. The elfling was cold. He didn't like this unfamiliar feeling.

Swallowing hard, Legolas shut his watery eyes tight. Running thus normally did not have such effects on him, and he was frustrated with the unusual fatigue that threatened to overwhelm his body. He was lost, the shoulder wound was screaming in pain, and Gandalf was back there fending off the orcs alone. The elfling remained still, gathering his thoughts. What to do?

Then he frowned. He straightened his back, and looked about the trees. He was sure he heard a scream. His scream.

"Ada! Ada, help me!"

The burning pain in his shoulder faded away to the dark abyss of his consciousness.

"Nana, I'm coming!"

"Where are you, Ada?"

Laughter. Screams. Questions. All in his own voice.

Legolas wildly looked around, eyes scanning the treetops and the horizon as well as the bushes surrounding him. What was this madness? Was he gripped so tenaciously by pain and weariness that he was now imagining things? He brought a muddied hand to his mouth; the cold lips were still and silent. Legolas looked around once again, confusion slowly overwhelmed by an instinctive sense of dread. The many voices that belonged to him clashed in the dark air, mingling in a frenzy of terrifying cacophony.

Then he remembered. Of course! It had to be the orcs. They had seized him as they had seized his mother; they were imitating him as they had imitated his mother. Then...

Legolas stood upright, eyes wide. They were trying to trick someone!

The elfling quickly turned to the direction from which he had come. Had they stopped fighting Gandalf? Surely the wizard would not allow the evil creatures to sit around and howl in unison to trick an innocent passer-by. Perhaps Gandalf had deterred them only enough to come running after him. That had to be why they were all trying to trick the wizard.

The elfling clutched his bow tightly. Gandalf was being hunted. What if the orcs shot arrows at him too? What if they pushed the wizard onto the ground and hurt him, like they had done to Legolas?

The elfling's mind reeled. He could not stay here. He had to go help Gandalf. The wizard said he was his friend, and Ada had told him once that friends were to help each other, even during times of danger. Besides, it was his fault that Gandalf was fighting all those big, bad orcs by himself...

The elfling quickly turned on his heels. He broke out into a run, and stopped abruptly, almost stumbling.

Gandalf had told him to run. He had come to help him, and told him to run away. Disobeying the wise wizard could get them into worse trouble.

The elfling furrowed his brow, biting his lip. What to do?

"Ada!"

The scream startled him out of his ponderings. The elfling looked around, eyes widening once more. Now wait a minute...

The voices were calling for his father desperately. No longer Nana. Just one person...

Legolas' heart jumped to his throat. A bright smile broke out from the pale features of the child.

They were trying to trick Ada! Ada was out here, looking for him!

"Ada!" he screamed, as loud as his young throat would allow him. "Ada!"

But then he faltered, a frown crossing his face. There were many other voices around him that screamed the same thing. Legolas looked around, panic-stricken. This was not going to work. How could he make his father recognize his voice? All of these cries were his.

"Ada?"

Fear was slow, but it was insistent. It crept discreetly along the elfling's senses, at first unnoticed, then repressed, but gaining in force. It was steady in growth and powerful once it began to take hold. Legolas shivered, panic rising in his throat.

What if his father couldn't tell the difference?

The elfling growled, suddenly angry. He stomped in frustration, his pain and injury forgotten. Why wasn't Ada calling out his name? Then he would be able to just find him on his own, without Ada having to be lured by the orcs!

"Ada!" he screamed again. "Ada, please answer me!"

Yet only his own voices haunted the cold air. Legolas hugged his arms, and jolted at the burning pain that returned to his senses with a vengeance. Trembling in pain, he scowled. Why wasn't Ada answering?

_Calm down, Legolas,_ he told himself, huffing from his moment of frustration. _Think. You must get out of this on your own. _It was a strange and frightening thought.

Biting down the fear that threatened to rise and take hold, he patiently tilted his head, pouting his lips and staring hard at the sinister dark mist. _Even heartbeats, calm breathing. Focus. _His eyes glazed hazily as he drowned in intense contemplation.

Even if Ada did call out, what then? Would he be able to find his way without being blocked by the orcs? Surely they would hear Ada too, if Legolas could. Then they would come and try to hurt him, and Ada as well...

In a flash of realization, Legolas' eyes focused sharply. The orcs would imitate Ada, and try to trick Legolas! Then neither of them would be able to find each other! Now he understood. Ada was unable to answer. If he did, then Legolas' fate, which had just been given another chance by Gandalf's intervention, would surely be sealed.

Legolas stomped again furiously, frustration quickly rising into a heat of panic. What was there to be done?

_Be calm, _he told himself over and over again, fiercely struggling to push down the quickly growing fear. _Be calm. Think. Think._

His mind was a jumble of whirling emotions as the screams in his own voice continued to ravage the air. Legolas listened to the voices surrounding him, voices calling out to his father. His heart constricted painfully with anxiety. He was completely helpless.

Following fear was despair. "Ada," he whispered. "Hear me...Ada..."

The elfling slowly sank down to the muddy ground. He was lost. Surrounded by orcs, his father near and yet so far, and the wizard battling for his life – he had brought something terrible to them all.

"Forgive me," he whispered, hugging his knees and resting his chin atop the round kneecaps. "Ada...Gandalf."

He was startled to find himself suddenly overwhelmed with a vicious onslaught of fatigue. The nausea returned, and his head began to pound feverishly. The dark shadows surrounding him began to spin. And the pain at his shoulder was becoming unbearable. Legolas shut his eyes tight. "Nana," he whispered, voice quaking in misery.

Then the tears came.

Slowly sinking deeper into the ground, Legolas rested his head against the cold soil. It brought a chill up his spine, but offered a surprising relief from the weariness. Never before had Legolas realized how tiring it was to simply hold up one's head.

The scorching pain remained, but the rest was blissful. The elfling sighed, eyes slowly losing focus. He wanted, more than anything, to sleep. Then he would awaken in the warm golden sunlight, and his father would be sitting at his bedside, stroking his head and gently telling him that it was all just a nightmare. How wonderful that would be...

Legolas clenched his fists tight and curled into a ball. This was real. As much as he shut his eyes and willed it to go away, the darkness of the night spared him no inkling of a light. The menacing chill of the fog continued to embrace his body, and the hard ground beneath his weary bones remained cold and unkind. The pain in his shoulder was sizzling hot. Legolas' eyelids began to droop.

_I wonder if I will meet Nana in the Hall of Mandos, _he thought drowsily. The elfling decided, slipping into a foggy dimension of semi-consciousness, that going to the Hall of Mandos may not be so bad after all. He had missed her very much...her laughter, her touch, her songs...

The song. It came back to him, a soft golden hum wading through the hazy silver mist of memory. And then he was back again, back in those golden days. The afternoon sun was shedding its warmth upon the luscious colors of the flowers and bushes in the garden; the bees were droning busily, and the birds were singing in their sweet, joyful voices. A slight breeze brushed against his cheeks Legolas sleepily looked up at the white arms, and the flowing azure blue dress, hovering above his unfocused vision. He was warm, his resting body swaying gently in a rhythmic motion. And the song...the song was there, constant as the sun, that ancient song that Nana had so often sung to him in his rocking cradle. It had been golden, sung in a warm and melodic voice; the sunshine had kissed his forehead, and Nana's hair had shone gold, and she had sung in a mysterious, ancient language...so beautiful, so magical...

Legolas started. Cold sweat broke out in his forehead, and he shivered involuntarily. He was still curled upon the cold, damp ground; he could hear his voices crying out in the darkness. He blinked, looking around dazedly. How long had he slept? Had he slept at all, or was it just a forgotten memory that had chosen to surface at this peculiar time? He was so sure he had heard her voice. She was singing to him, singing that sweet and beautiful song of the ancient tongue...

Legolas sat up, his smooth brows suddenly wrinkling into a frown. The ancient tongue...it had been familiar. He somehow knew what the words meant. The memory had brought the song back to him, transparent and unmarred; and he realized, with a cold thrill, that he understood that language. He knew it well. He had not understood it then, but that was when he was still a babe. Legolas' eyes sparked with a sudden fire.

Hope rekindled, he jumped to his feet. The orcs were still screaming to his father in their imitated voices, and the dark sky was yet haunting and hostile; but the elfling stood upon the ground with fierce determination in his glowing eyes.

_They imitate Sindarin well,_ he thought with grim triumph. _Let them try their tongue at Quenya._

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The horses were pacing nervously as the riders looked around in helpless desperation. Thranduil's head was hanging low. The warriors were eager to split into however many directions it took, even if that meant parties of one. But the king had not responded to their suggestion. He was staring at the ground, eyes unfocused and unseeing. All channels of coherent thought in the well-seasoned and decisive warrior seemed to have been paralyzed by the imitated cries of his son. The elves glanced at one another anxiously. The prince could be dead by now, for all they knew, though no one dared to let the fear surface from the depths of their gazes.

The king's eyes abruptly widened. The elves snapped to attention, harshly silencing their restless mounts.

A voice was ringing in the far horizon. It was clear and thin, just like the rest of them. However, something about it drew the keen gazes of the elves with a magnetizing force. It was exactly like the rest of the voices in the air – except it was different. It alone spoke in a different language.

The elves all quieted, staring intensely at a dark, misty part of the woods to the west. The voice was weaker than the others, but there was no doubt; this voice spoke the ancient tongue – a pure, perfectly accented Quenya.

"...have treaded upon the land since the golden days, untouched by fear..."

The elves strained their ears to isolate the child's voice from the rest of the chaos of the night. This voice alone did not call out to his father. The squad slowly spurred their horses to stand next to Thranduil, whose hands gripped the reins tight, glazed eyes focused on the western horizon. He held his breath as the flowing ancient tongue rolled off the craggy treetops.

"...so be gone, cursed race of demons; leave this place and be no more!"

"Legolas." The heart-wrenching whisper was more a sob than an utterance. "My Legolas."

The warriors glanced at one another, eyes steeled with determination, as they readjusted their grips on weapons. With a mighty cry, the king spurred his horse forward and lunged into the forest. The rest of the warriors followed readily, delving deeper into the dark. Paying no heed to the sharp thorns and bushes that viciously struck their faces, they urged their horses forward, galloping with newfound strength.

The path grew narrower and narrower, until finally it became blocked altogether. Thranduil jumped off his horse and, not casting so much as a glance to the side for another passage, began to wade through the gnarled branches and thorns. The rest of the warriors followed suit, hurrying through the sinister mist that clung to their forms and obstructed even the keenest elven sight. This part of the forest seemed more evil than the rest; the air was heavy and damp, and the trees spoke of evil lurking in the air. The elves were moving with instinctive haste and desperation; the orcs would soon realize that the elfling had outwitted them, and would also move toward the prince to catch him. The young prince was setting his life at stake for this gamble. The elves were determined to be the ones to reach him first.

All the while the warriors were at the height of their senses, listening sharply to the voice that continued to resonate. It was not a painful, tireless wail like the rest of them; this voice was weak, but determined. Weary, but proud - and it slowly grew in strength.

"...to you, for I am Legolas, son of King Thranduil, crown prince of Greenwood the Great. And hear me, you wretched creatures of the night; be it by arrow, poison or sword, I will not surrender to darkness!"

Thranduil unsheathed his sword and, with almost invisible speed and strength, began to slice his way through cumbersome shrubbery. The elves thus moved on swiftly, hacking their way through the forest, refusing to be deterred. Clinging onto the vehement young voice as it rose higher and higher into the dark sky.

"I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, grandson of Oropher!" A scream of determination, a bloody fight for life. "In my veins courses the royal blood of the Firstborn; that I stand before the venom of your tongues, or the heat of your torture, I shall fear no evil!"

_Wait for me, my little bird, _whispered Thranduil fiercely, icy blue eyes glittering as he picked up a foul orc scent that led to a familiar clearing. Running at blinding speed, he clenched his sword tight. _Ada is coming.  
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_**,**__**  
To Be Continued**_


	7. Dead End

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, save the plot. Yes, the plot is mine.

Rating: PG-13

By Kasmi Kassim

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,

_**The Strength of One Green Leaf**_

_**,**_

_**Chapter 7: Dead End**_

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Gandalf could run no more.

The wizard stopped for a breath of air, leaning against an old tree. Gasping painfully, he eyed his dimly-lit staff. This was the end; he would have to face them sooner or later. It was farther away from the palace than he had hoped, but his legs were screaming for respite.

"Kill him!" The shriek was upon his back. He swiftly whirled around, lashing out with his staff. The orc that had pounced on him fell onto the ground with a yelp. Gandalf stood his ground, eying the orcs menacingly.

Shortly after Legolas' flight, the wizard had escaped as the orcs spread out to pollute the forest air with their vile imitations of the prince. However, for some strange reason which he could not quite fathom, the orcs had given up the howling in favor of hot pursuit. Gandalf briefly wondered if he was indeed running in the same direction Legolas had taken.

Well, it was too late to find out. Gandalf raised his staff. There was a whole band of them, but he would not go down without a fight. It did not do well to underestimate Gandalf the Gray.

"Come, you foul monsters, if you desire a taste of a wizard's magic!"

A war cry ensued.

Orcs rushed forward, swinging their black blades, as the light-wielding wizard had managed to strip them of bows and arrows. Gandalf twirled his long staff with mighty force and speed, knocking orcs left and right. His moves were nearly flawless; orcs could not come near him.

Gandalf panted, risking a glance around while knocking another orc with a swift whirl of his staff. Despite his excellent fighting skills, the vigorous performance was fast taking a toll on his old body. He muttered a curse under his breath. _Valar, why did you give me such a shriveled up remnant of a vessel?_ It was an unanswered complaint raised every time he hit the limits of physical barrier.

The orcs were tired and bruised, and some even swooning; however, he was still outnumbered. And soon, he would be overwhelmed. Gandalf gritted his teeth. Gathering the grain of strength left in him, the wizard lunged forward to meet another staggering orc.

A sharp cry of pain rang out in the air.

Gandalf turned, wide-eyed, as another orc slumped against him from behind. Moving quickly out of the way, he saw black blood running down the back of the ambusher. Embedded squarely in the orc's torso was a polished brown arrow with a dark feathered tip. A Mirkwood arrow.

Not daring to breathe, Gandalf raised his eyes – and met determined blue ones.

Gandalf held his breath; he dared not utter a word.

The elfling stood in the shadow, halfway obscured by the twisted trunk of the tree, bow ready in his hands. He tilted his head, eying Gandalf with an indignant pout to match the childish scowl. "You're late."

Gandalf opened his mouth at this; yet he did not get the chance to speak, for the elfling suddenly raised his bow again, swiftly reaching behind his back for another arrow.

"Move!" the child exclaimed, aiming his bow past the wizard in lightning fast movement. The wizard sprang to the side as the practiced hand let the arrow fly through the air. The arrow buzzed past his ear, singing a lasting prelude to the bloody scream that followed.

The wizard stared at the small figure standing on a large raised root of the gnarled tree. He was at a loss for words. "I told you to run," he muttered, more to himself in his state of dumbfounded shock.

The child looked up once again, his gaze resolute. "I did," he replied. The wizard's mouth opened, but closed. It then opened again, but still no words came out. Legolas blinked, and tilted his head once more with an impatient pout. "I came back."

Gandalf's jaw dropped, and this time, he did not bother to close it. The elfling perked up and deftly reached for another arrow. Gandalf's mind reeled even further. This elfling was dispatching messengers of death with the speed of an assassin. And here he thought the elfling was too innocent to understand death...much less murder.

Turning to face the orcs, the wizard saw that the enemies were hesitating. Numerous bodies lay on the ground. The light-wielding wizard was reunited with an elfling who was apparently no longer afraid to kill; staring at the face of an arrow, the orcs did not seem to favor the idea of charging forward. Gandalf smiled humorlessly. _Foul cowards._

Aligning himself with the prince, Gandalf glanced down to his side. He could rebuke this bundle of oddities later. But he had the feeling that he would not get far in his reproach, for Legolas had beaten him to it. After all, the pointed look the elfling gave him made it clear that Legolas had to come to him because the wizard could not even follow quickly enough. _Brave, _thought Gandalf sourly, scanning the elfling beside him up and down with an inspective eye._ But to a fault. Just like that Thranduil. _

Gandalf uttered a soft string of curses when he spotted the stump arrow shaft protruding from the child's shoulder. The colorful chain of curses was aborted when Legolas tilted his head and peered up at him with an inquisitive frown. Gandalf coughed awkwardly.

The red blood was trickling slowly, stunted by the shaft blocking the wound. The elfling's face was pale and grim as he moved his gaze away from the wizard and looked steadily toward his enemies, arrow ready. He seemed to be oblivious to pain. Gandalf clucked his tongue. _Stubborn Thranduilion. _

The wizard tightened his hold on the gray staff as the orcs shifted uneasily. They seemed to see no other way but to charge. And charge they did.

Cursing again under his breath, Gandalf raised his staff. His intense concentration was abruptly broken by the innocent voice ringing from barely above his knees.

"That word sounds very bad, Gandalf." Disapproval evident in the young voice, the elfling released an arrow absentmindedly. The arrow struck the neck of the leading orc; he dropped at the spot. "Nana said nice people mustn't say such things."

Gandalf scowled. "Fool of a Leaf," he muttered, charging forward. In the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the elfling tilting his head in confusion, but could not linger to upbraid him further. He was once again thrown into battle.

The wizard swung his staff defensively before the prince, while Legolas sent arrow after arrow flying toward the orcs. The arrows hit their mark with deadly precision, each one embedding itself at the neck. Angry as he was for the elfling's reckless disobedience, Gandalf had to admit that he was glad for the presence of his small ally.

"Only six more to go, my friend!" cried Gandalf, readjusting his grip on the staff. There was no reply.

Gandalf glanced back briefly, and quickly turned in surprise. The prince was standing unsteadily, as if it took all of his strength to remain in that position. His face was deathly pale. Legolas raised a shaky arm to shoot another arrow. The arrow bounced harmlessly off of an orc's arm.

Alarmed, the wizard quickly retreated to the elfling standing before the tree. Legolas quickly pulled out another arrow, and again lifted his arm. The arrow flew in an arc, and fell helplessly on the ground. Legolas frowned, and bowed his head; his small body swayed, as he reached out to the tree to steady himself.

"Legolas!" The wizard caught him by the shoulders, but snatched his hand away when the elfling jolted in pain. The elfling's cry was soft.

The wizard watched intently as Legolas slowly raised his head and looked past him. Following the gaze, Gandalf turned quickly to see the orcs gathering themselves with a smirk. There was only a handful left. Gandalf steadied his staff and, leaning the half-conscious elfling against the tree, charged forward once again with renewed strength driven from anxiety.

The leading orc charged speedily, sword ready; Gandalf gave a desperate battle cry.

When an arm's length from each other, the orc froze, his face a shocked mask of pain. Gandalf quickly drew back, puzzled, as the dark creature slowly dropped to the ground with a thud.

Simultaneously, more deadly tunes of death followed, falling from the skies faster than rain. It was a menacing black harmony, singing promises of demise. And demise they gave. Swiftly.

Shock turned to realization as one orc after another fell. Gandalf looked up and spotted a crown of golden head shimmering among the black silhouettes in the trees. His heart leaped with relief.

"Thranduil!"

As the warriors appeared from among the trees, bows ready and eyes glittering, Gandalf turned to grab the elfling. His hands met empty air.

Shocked, the wizard whirled around in a surge of panic. An indignant cry burst from his lips. Legolas was locked in a deadly grip of an injured orc, who had seemingly risen from the dead. A blade gleamed by the elfling's white neck.

The elves pointed their arrows at the orc as he retreated slowly, a low chuckle dripping from his twisted mouth. He was bleeding from an arrow wound in the leg; Legolas, in his fading strength, had apparently missed the vital spot.

An elf stepped forward from the dark canopy of the trees, arrow pointed between the orc's eyes.

"Release him, orc, or you will meet death swifter than an eye can see." His voice was even, eyes calm and resolute in carrying out his threat.

The orc chuckled louder. "To what end, elf? I will die soon anyway." With those words he tugged at the prince, dragging him back.

"Halt!"

It was Thranduil. The king leaped down from the trees, and stood facing the orc. The dawning light from the east revealed only pale and cold eyes. The king did not move.

"Release my son."

The orc threw back his head and laughed. The harsh, ragged voice echoed unpleasantly in the woods. "To see the day when the elf-king begs! This is something to be told!" He stepped further back, and brought the blade closer to Legolas' neck. Thranduil's eyes gleamed dangerously.

"We will release you, if you release the elfling mine." The king's voice was steady.

The orc looked around at the surrounding elves, who slowly lowered their bows. He chuckled and shook his head.

"I do not believe you, elf."

Thranduil's jaw clenched. The air was tense as he slowly reached up to his chest. Silence befell the party. It was broken only by a snap, when the strap that held the quiver of arrows on Thranduil's back became unclasped.

"Thranduil..." Gandalf began to step forward, but stopped short. He bit his lip. _What right do you have to stop him, Gandalf? _The voice in his mind was bitter, taunting. _You let your guard down; you failed to protect the prince, when he was merely an arm's length away. _He slowly stepped back, guilt biting him as he watched the king of elves toss his quiver to the ground. He could not bring himself to look at Thranduil's eyes. His heart burned with shame.

Not taking his eyes off of his son, who was half conscious in the grip of the orc, Thranduil proceeded to drop his great black bow, and began to undo the leather strap which held his sword in place.

The elves shifted nervously. Thranduil's eyes were still planted on Legolas as he called out evenly: "Retreat."

Gandalf clenched a fist as the elves silently dropped to the ground and withdrew to the bushes. Reluctantly he backed away with them. The last vision he saw of the standoff was that of the king unsheathing a last hidden dagger and dropping it onto the cold soil.

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To Be Continued


	8. Perchance to Dream

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, save the plot. Yes, the plot is mine.

Rating: PG-13...this chapter could be R if you have vivid imagination, maybe...should I change the entire story's rating, or what?

Thank you all for reading!

By Kasmi Kassim

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_**The Strength of One Green Leaf**_

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Chapter 8: Perchance to Dream

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Legolas gasped, struggling feebly as his captor dragged him through the bushes. The arm around his neck was nearly suffocating him. He blinked and coughed; tears stung his eyes. His vision was blurry. Why was it still so dark? As strength left the body, so did courage; Legolas wanted to cry. Why wasn't morning coming? _I hate the dark,_ he muttered silently. _I hate this evil fog._ The night had dragged on too long for the elfling.

The orc was walking backwards, glancing back occasionally to make sure he was going the right way. His gaze was upon Thranduil, who was following barehanded, his graceful movements slick with menace.

"How much further do you plan to go?" the elf asked in a low voice, even gaze never leaving Legolas. A blue tint of dawn had begun to touch the thick fog. It would be daybreak soon.

The orc grunted, tightening his grip on the black blade pressed against the elfling's neck. "Far enough for me to be safe from your conniving kind."

Thranduil's brief glance coldly flitted across the orc's features. "Elves do not lie, orc."

The orc snorted, and continued to wade backwards through the entanglement of branches and bushes. Black blood was oozing down from his leg, leaving a foul stench along the way. It was mingling with a thin trail of red blood, trickling down from the elfling's slumped shoulder. The threesome was beginning to enter a small clearing when Thranduil noticed that the elfling's eyelids were drooping, pupils slowly beginning to dilate.

"Legolas." Thranduil's voice became commanding, urgent. "Legolas, stay awake. Do you hear me, Legolas? Ada is here. Stay awake!"

The child struggled to clear his hazy vision, but to no avail. The blue eyes remained misty and glazed. The pale face showed no movement, as his small chest rose in irregular intervals. The body was limp; his breaths were coming in short, ragged gasps. Thranduil realized with alarm that he was going into shock.

"Stop!" cried the king, halting dead in his tracks. His gaze smoldered with icy fire. "We've come far enough; return him to me!"

The orc glanced behind him, scouring the clearing. Then he smirked. "You're right. We have come far enough."

He suddenly pushed the elfling violently toward the edge of the clearing, where a small outcropping overlooked a foreboding chasm. The child stumbled and fell to his knees; crushing down the small back with a huge hand, the orc yanked the child's braid. Legolas gasped, eyes slowly coming back into focus. The orc tilted the elfling's head, forcing him to face the dark abyss beyond the jutting land. Small pieces of dirt and pebbles went tumbling down into the darkness.

"Look carefully, elfling," snickered the dark creature. "This is where you left your Nana to die."

"What!"

The king had almost reached them in a burst of rage when the orc pressed the blade against Legolas' skin. He stopped, eyes seething with anger. "Don't believe what he says, Legolas. He lies."

"What does he know?" snickered the orc, pushing the shaking elfling closer to the edge. The king flinched, body taut with anticipation. "He wasn't here, elfling. Only you were."

"Nana...?" Legolas choked, still halfway conscious. He stared at the darkness that opened beneath the small sodden cliff, ragged gasps catching in his throat.

Thranduil growled. The chasm was quite deep; it was laced with a dense blanket of shrubbery and gnarled branches. The open mouth of the cavernous darkness was threatening, awaiting innocent creatures' fall to their doom. It was clearly a perfect dwelling for a giant spider.

"No, Legolas. Nana is not there. Don't believe this beast." The king's voice was strong; yet the edge of agitation failed to escape the orc's senses. The captor grunted, and roughly shoved the elfling's head down over the cliff. Thranduil jumped forward.

"What are you doing?" he cried, eyes flashing with unconstrained wrath. The orc chuckled.

"Maybe he would like to see his Nana."

The king stood still, as if frozen. The orc cocked his head to one side, and stood. Legolas lay motionless on his stomach, head hanging over the outcropping. His eyes were glazed and out of focus, but Thranduil could see the small lips moving inaudibly. Barely hanging onto consciousness.

The orc cocked his head, and glanced at the elfling behind him. He turned to Thranduil with a smirk. "Come here," he ordered with a growl.

He watched in triumph as the king slowly moved toward him, refusing to take his eyes off of his son. Thranduil finally came to a stop when he was but an arm's length away. He slowly raised his eyes from the body behind the orc and looked at the creature straight in the eye. His blue eyes were vacant. The orc smiled broadly, baring his teeth in delight. He raised his black blade high into the air.

"Hail King Thranduil."

The sword sliced the silence of dawn.

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Gandalf raised his head, squinting at the dawning sky. The mist was thickening amid the blue tinge of daybreak. He impatiently tapped the wet ground with his staff. "What is your plan?" he demanded, scanning the dark-haired elven warriors standing around him.

There was silence.

Gandalf scowled, turning his head to look at the path through which they had retreated. "We must be quite far by now." He turned his head back and looked at the elves expectantly. They still did not move. They resembled beautifully carved marble statues, enveloped in the embrace of the mist. Gandalf threw up his hands in exasperation.

"For Valar's sake, do you all just plan to stand around?"

The elves were yet silent. One of the warriors raised his eyes and met Gandalf's fuming gaze. "They are moving," he said quietly.

Gandalf blinked. The elves suddenly stirred into motion, as if broken out of a trance. Each warrior pulled out an arrow and, holding his bow ready for kill, began to swiftly tread back the way through which they had retreated.

The wizard grunted as he moved to catch up with them. They had been listening all this time; that was why they had not moved or answered to Gandalf's urges. He sighed. _You're a fool, Gandalf,_ he muttered to himself. _To be so faithless of elves, of all creatures. _He should have remembered the keen elven senses that always succeeded in leaving him feeling useless and foolish.

_No matter,_ he thought, hurrying to match the pace of the silent elves. The fact that he was now joined by a squad of elven warriors was an immense relief. Now he could rely on their superior senses as well as their deadly abilities; there was nothing to fear. Gandalf relaxed, daring to give his heightened nerves a long-desired rest, as his feet blindly followed the company surrounding him.

The party slowed visibly. Gandalf started, his senses jumping to their edge again. Was there something amiss?

"What is it, my friends?" asked the wizard, as the warriors came to a languid halt. They looked at each other knowingly, dark dread settling upon their fair features. Gandalf looked from one elf to another, his heart scorching with burning fear. What was it that haunted these fearless warriors?

One of the elves finally met his questioning eyes. "The orc is leading them to the western bank," he said quietly. He looked around, and motioned for the party to keep moving.

The squad began to move forward again, but this time their movements were strangely urgent. "What is in the western bank?" asked the wizard, quickening his pace to almost a run to keep pace. The elf by his side looked at him grimly.

"It is a path to Rivendell."

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The orc fell forward, utter shock imprinted upon his face.

Thranduil's cold eyes were staring beyond the fallen creature. Behind the body crouched a giant black spider, slowly cocking its head and inspecting the two limp bodies before its eyes. Then it raised its head and looked straight at Thranduil. Their gazes locked.

The elf tensed. The spider hissed. It seemed uncertain as to what to do. Slowly moving one leg up and down, it was cocking its head and studying the standing elf. Silence filled the crackle of dawn.

A stir broke the tension in the air. The elfling was slowly moving; he mumbled something in a soft moan and lifted his head stiffly. Thranduil's eyes flashed with panic.

The spider quickly shifted its gaze toward the elfling. Realizing that the small creature was not yet subdued, it turned toward the squirming body on the ground. Time froze in the chill of blue dawn. Thranduil gave a terrified cry.

"Legolas!"

The elfling turned his head. For the first time, there was recognition in the dimming blue eyes. "Ada...?" he choked feebly.

In a blinding motion, Thranduil launched himself. When he skidded to a halt between the child and the spider, merely a breath away from the latter, the fallen orc's sword gleamed in his hand. The spider struck.

Cool breeze caressed Legolas' hair. The elfling looked up and saw – to his confusion and following joy – his father's familiar broad back. The dark cloak wavered gently over the elfling's face, whispering silent comfort. Beyond his father's figure stood a monstrous black spider, slowly pulling out a blood-smeared black sting from the king's stomach.

When the spider pulled its torso away triumphantly, Thranduil's body swayed – and slowly lurched forward. His feet began to slide on the black dirt, giving way to the wave of poison rushing in his veins. Legolas' eyes widened in horror.

"Ada!"

Abruptly, the king's feet gritted viciously into the soil. Holding up the failing body with glittering ice in his eyes, Thranduil lifted his gaze to the surprised spider. He slowly raised the black blade.

The spider wildly struck again, the poison hitting the elf once more in the stomach. The king did not flinch as he drove his blade deep into the petrified black monster, the poisonous needle still embedded in his body. Slowly, painfully – fulfilling the promise that sang from the blade and seethed from the cold gaze piercing those a breath away from his face. As a rich fountain of spurting blood drew a deadly rainbow against the sky, both creatures remained still, locked in a mortal embrace of death.

The silver-tinged dawn hushed into silence.

The last sight beheld by the elfling's dimming eyes was that of his father; the blood-soaked body, dropping limply onto a sword embedded to the hilt in the spider. The cloak sweeping the ground with a gentle flutter. The body hitting the soft ground noiselessly.

And then, Legolas' vision faded into complete darkness.

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_"Nana! Ada! Look what I found!"_

The couple looked back from their leisurely walk in the garden, and watched with amused smiles as their elfling ran toward them as fast as his little legs could carry him. His face was flushed, and a single braid of hair trailed behind him, bouncing and casting brilliant golden shimmers in the setting sun. He stopped in front of his parents, huffing from the run. The royal couple could see that the child was holding something protectively in his hands.

The queen laughed melodiously and knelt down before the child. "What is it, my little Greenleaf?" she asked, eyes twinkling with mirth.

Legolas held his breath, and carefully opened his cupped hands. Nestled in the small cave of warmth was a small clump of feathers, from which a pair of black eyes blinked drowsily.

"Why, a bird!" The queen laughed delightfully, and the king leaned in for a closer look. The bird was clearly drugged; it kept yawning and snuggling close the elfling's palm.

The king smiled. This child had a way with animals. Rascal that he was, he was so careful and gentle with them.

The bird squeaked feebly when it realized that it was surrounded by strangers. It did not even look old enough to fly.

"It fell from its nest," explained the elfling, still breathless and glowing with excitement. "I took it to the healer, and she made it all better! I'm taking it back to its home, so its nana and ada won't be worried."

The parents looked at each other, discreet smiles creeping into the corners of their lips. The king turned to the child, and stroked his golden head with a chuckle. "How thoughtful of you, Legolas. I am sure its parents are worried by now. Let us take it back to its home."

The short walk to the large tree was full of chatter. Legolas, who would normally be dancing and running around them in ceaseless excitement, was walking slowly and gently as not to startle the small bird. He would occasionally look down at the sleepy creature, and look up at his smiling parents. His eyes shone with delight and unsuppressed youth and life as he chatted on about the wonders of healing and how he would someday become a healer. When Mirkwood patrols and warriors get hurt, they would go to Legolas and he would make them all better. He was so sure.

Every day had been like that evening, full of laughter and blessing. Everyone had believed that the happiness would last. 

Perhaps it had all been a dream.

The sun caressed pale cheeks gently, draping long shadows of the lashes hovering halfway over hazy blue orbs. Slowly, a crystalline tear slid down.

"Oropherion!"

The huffing voice of Gandalf boomed from the doorway. Thranduil turned his gaze to meet those of the wizard, eyes shimmering in a vast sea of sadness.

The wizard stood grasping the doorframe with an infuriated look, his hair a tangle of silver threads hanging over the wrinkled folds of his robe. He did not look very refreshed at all. How long had he been unconscious? Thranduil began to pull himself up groggily.

"Do not move, you foolish elf," snarled the wizard, crossing the distance between them and pushing him firmly down onto the bed. Thranduil gasped, wide eyes suddenly flashing with a light of fear.

"Legolas-"

Gandalf raised his hand to silence the elf. "Ease your panicking. He is retrieved."

The wizard nodded toward the bed next to Thranduil's. The king followed Gandalf's gaze, anxiously devouring the sight of his son. The elfling lay there, still as death, eyes closed. The king jolted upright from his bed.

"Legolas!"

"He lives, Thranduil." The wizard pushed the elf down again. Thranduil's brows knitted tight, stifling a groan. He slowly fingered the white bandages wrapped around his bare abdomen. Gandalf shook his head disapprovingly, clucking his tongue. "Reckless fool."

Panting, Thranduil scowled, more from intense annoyance at the cumbrance of the wound than the pure agony it presented. His eyes were still rooted on the motionless form of the elfling. "Please," he muttered, reaching out a weakened hand. "Bring him to me."

Gandalf complied, turning to gently lift the small body of the elfling in his arms. Thranduil saw that Legolas was washed clean and dressed in a loose garb, which revealed white bandages underneath. There were other cuts and scrapes all over the body, but they had been left exposed; the healer had obviously left them to the powers of ointment, for an elven skin mended quickly when allowed to breathe the air.

Thranduil moved slightly to the side as the wizard lowered his child next to him. Pale arms reached out to secure the elfling close to his body. Thranduil lay there, holding his unconscious child close, tired hands ceaselessly stroking the face and tucking away baby hair with utmost tenderness. Gandalf watched with sympathy as the father's eyes glazed with overwhelming emotion, lips moving to whisper silent words of comfort and gratitude.

Gandalf reached out and touched his friend gently on the shoulder. "Rest, Thranduil. The nightmare is over."

Thranduil closed his eyes, a shaky sigh escaping his dry lips, as he slowly wrapped his arms tighter around the limp body of his child. My little bird...His mind blurred with chaotic and colorful emotions, and yet it was blank, for he could grasp none of them. All he could do was bask in the golden dream that he had come so close to losing – and had finally won back into his arms.

"Legolas."

The whisper was a thick, trembling stream of emotion. The father pressed his lips on his child's forehead and cheeks, murmuring the babe's name as he rained kisses onto the child, his hands continuing to caress the smooth skin of the motionless face.

"My lord."

A soft voice slowly brought colors back into his vision. The king opened his eyes and dazedly stared at the dark-haired healer, who stood behind Gandalf with unbearable guilt etched on her fair face. Thranduil slightly relaxed his hold on Legolas, but did not release him as he nodded at the healer, prompting her to continue.

The healer swallowed. Her expression became even more saddened and guilt-ridden, as she bowed her head deeply. Her voice was but a whisper.

"The prince does not awaken, My Liege."

The sun lost its golden luster as the king's heart dropped with a leaden coldness. The world whirled dizzily.

Dreams were not meant to last.  
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To Be Continued


	9. To Vanquish Demons

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, save the plot.

Rating: PG-13

By Kasmi Kassim

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_**The Strength of One Green Leaf**_

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Chapter 9: To Vanquish Demons  
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The healer was pacing madly.

Before her eyes loomed the great door of fine dark wood, the door to the healing chamber – her own healing chamber. And yet she dared not enter.

She stopped, and with steely determination, raised her hand to knock on the door. But the hand dropped hesitantly, and she began to pace again. Stopping once more, she sighed in frustration, running her fingers through her hair. She groaned as her fingers effectively entangled themselves in a neat braid.

"What an unexpected predicament. Does the healer need a hairbrush?"

She jolted at the amused tone of a light masculine voice, and quickly spun to face a tall warrior clad in armor. She opened her mouth to admonish the youth for startling her when she spotted a trickle of blood lining his arm. A healer's instinct taking over, she frowned in concern.

"You must go to a healer, young one. There are many other chambers down the hallway. Show your arm to any one of the healers – they are not occupied."

The warrior cocked his head, allowing a melancholic smile. "I am older than you."

The healer frowned deeper and placed her hands upon her hips indignantly. "It matters not. Listen to what a healer tells you."

"So tell me." The elf looked toward the dark door. "How is the prince?" His voice was solemn.

The healer fell silent. The warrior turned back at her with a questioning look. She shook her head and dropped her gaze dejectedly unto the floor. With a thump, she slouched against the heavy door and leaned her forehead. Her eyes closed sadly.

"I hesitate to enter through my own chamber doors," she whispered.

The warrior nodded, eyes softening with understanding. With gentle fingers he pried the healer off of the door, and raised his hand to knock curtly.

The healer watched, biting her lip nervously, as they waited in silence.

After what seemed like an eternity, a low voice answered. "Enter."

The male elf cleared his throat as he opened the door. The healer peeped in from behind his back, hastily smoothing her hair. The king was seated beside the bed, hands clasped upon his knees. His strong and commanding figure was hunched over, eyes closed and forehead resting against his hands. The elfing lay motionless still. Life seemed to have drained from both father and son. The healer swallowed hard.

Thranduil opened his eyes and slowly raised his head. His gaze was yet vacant.

The warrior stood upright, his eyes stubbornly rooted on the wall. "The enemies continue their attack, shielded by fog. We believe they aim for the castle. Their numbers do not wane."

The king let out an inaudible sigh. His forehead leaned heavily against his clasped hands, unfocused gaze hovering on the wall. "Injuries?" he inquired quietly.

"Two injured, including myself," answered the elf. "They are minor injuries. The other one is already at the healing chamber."

The king finally turned his head and sat upright, tired gaze sweeping over the two elves. The warrior saw the king looking up at him wearily, and quickly dropped to one knee, bowing his head. Thranduil silently watched as the healer hurriedly knelt down as well. His voice was low.

"How is the forefront?"

"They are relentless, my lord." The warrior's voice was grim. "We had driven them back overnight, but now our forces are being pushed back. We are making full use of our hunting army, and yet we will soon be forced to retreat to the havens."

The king was silent. The warrior waited.

Finally, Thranduil sighed again and turned his head back toward the elfling lying next to him. His gaze lingered on the pale, motionless face. The small shoulder wrapped in white bandage, the cuts and bruises all over the small body. The limp fingers. The king turned back to the sentinel.

"I will not permit any move that may result in casualties."

The two elves before the king froze, eyes growing wide. The king was a fearless warrior, a charismatic leader. He had never spoken thus – especially when it concerned battling in the face of danger. All of Mirkwood knew well the price that came with fighting to survive and protect.

Thranduil, however, seemed set in his decision. "Continue with bows; do not get down onto the forest floor. All evil that cross the threshold will be eliminated, but do not attempt to charge at them with swords. Driving them out only promises another day of danger." He glanced out the window. The sunlight was fading. The whole realm was wrapped in thick silver fog.

"Tell the commander that I will join once he wakes." He returned his gaze to his prone child. The warrior bowed deeper.

"We miss not your presence in battle during such times, my lord," he stated softly. "We beg you to stay with the prince."

The king simply nodded, pursing his lips. The elven warrior rose and, with a curt bow, left.

The healer remained where she was, mind racing with panic. What now?

The king turned to her. He motioned her to come closer. She nervously approached the prince. She was never one to be uneasy, but it shook her to see a patient over whom she had no control. Seeing the child lying so helplessly before her was driving her mad. Was she not a healer?

"What is it that ails him?" The king's voice was ever quiet. The healer swallowed, and took a seat beside the prince, the king watching her profile intently. She reached out a slender hand and gently placed it over the prince's heart.

"His heart suffers, my liege."

The king's gaze lingered hauntingly over his elfling's fair face.

The healer slightly shifted her position, the sleeves of her robe rustling against the thin blanket as she bent over the elfling and placed one hand on his forehead, the other hand remaining atop his chest. She closed her eyes. An inaudible sigh escaped her lips; she had hoped that she would not have to do this, but it seemed that she had waited enough. She began to whisper an incantation, lips moving quietly as pale light began to emanate from her hands.

_The healer's song..._

Legolas flinched. The healer insistently pressed his chest, brows furrowing in concentration, as she continued her whisper. The king watched on warily.

_You did so love this silent melody well, dear little prince._

Her lean fingers began to move delicately atop his pale garment, soothingly stroking his form. The incantation flowed around her like a soothing melody, as the pale light enveloped her entire body. Extending to the elfling.

_Hear me, Legolas..._

The elfling trembled. Thranduil's eyes were alert. The healer's brows creased further.

_Open the gates, young one...awaken._

A spasm from the small body jolted Thranduil. The healer halted her chant, eyes fluttering open. In a flash, the ethereal light was gone. She leaned forward and studied the frowning elfling with concern.

Thranduil watched in alarm as his child lay trembling. He did not know whether to be glad that Legolas was no longer motionless, or to be worried that he looked as if in pain. The king turned a questioning look to the healer. She sighed and hung her head morosely.

"He will not let me enter."

The king bit excruciatingly deep into his lip.

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Gandalf sat on the windowsill of his room, smoking a pipe lazily as he looked out into the morning. Even the thick blanket of fog could not hide the evils that permeated from the lands surrounding the havens protected by Thranduil. The wizard sighed and closed his eyes. It had been a long night, but his nerves had been too excited to sleep.

The wizard shuddered as the memories came back to him. He shook his head to clear his thoughts; he did not want to ever relive that horror again. The danger he faced with the elfling was one thing. But the desperate pursuit, the voices, the bloody trails...no, it was too much. The terror of finding four bodies lying together in a heap of blood was one he would especially prefer to forget. The scene screamed loud and clear; all creatures were unconscious save the lifeless spider, and the elfling lay just behind his father, whose position clearly told of his defiant struggle to the last waking moment. The sword, lodged deep within the monster that lay touching the elf, gave further testimony to that.

After that initial terror and shock, everything was a blur. The elven warriors dispatched the unconscious orc swiftly, and the party hurried back to the castle in desperate haste. The king had to be pulled away from the spider sting that was still embedded in his abdomen, and the elven prince had lost too much blood already. Life was hanging on by a thread.

The wizard blew out a smoke ring.

All was well, and the dangers were over. At least, some of them were.

But Gandalf knew better. He could hear the growing restlessness within the palace. The Mirkwood elves lived with danger, and battling spiders and orcs was a daily affair, something that was handled without breaking the cool readiness of the court. There should not have been so much commotion; the enemy was obviously attacking with a very lofty goal. The wizard sighed.

"I hope I am not intruding."

A quiet voice broke him out of his reverie. The wizard turned, and choked on the smoke when he saw Thranduil standing at the doorway. He swung his feet down and hastily stood on the floor. "Come in, Thranduil," he coughed, with an excessive wave of his hand. Then he noticed the pipe in his own hand, and quickly moved to the table to put it down. Then he hurried to the windowsill again, remembering only then to open the window. He had never expected an elf to show up in his smoke-filled room.

Thranduil entered slowly while the wizard scurried about in a fuss, and closed the door with measured silence. His eyes were calm, the icy blue crystals of his eyes trapping the crashing waves of emotion that swirled within.

"I am going out to the forefront."

The wizard's fingers froze in midair. A cool breeze blew in through the half-opened window.

Gandalf turned slowly, eyes glittering. "Are you mad, Oropherion?" he whispered. He looked pointedly at the elf's torso; he could make out the white bandages underneath the loosely hanging robe. Thranduil did not flinch.

"The orcs keep coming. They plan to seize the castle." The voice was cool and measured. Gandalf wondered what had overcome his usually hot-headed friend. He shook his head, and continued to stare, speechless.

Thranduil steadily held the wizard's questioning gaze. "They want a war to end it all. I will give them war." The quiet air in the room rang with steely determination underlying the serene tone. "A war they will not forget – for a very long time."

The blue silence of the room prompted a shiver. Gandalf sighed, letting out a breath he did not realize he had been holding. He then coughed out some more smoke, shaking his head with a sad chuckle. This was the Thranduil he knew. The fiery young lad in the king had not died.

"But must it be now, my friend?" The wizard approached the king, the half-opened window forgotten, and clasped the elf's shoulder. His eyes were soft with concern. "I understand how you feel. But you are unwell. Your child is not yet healed. Perhaps after a day or two of rest..."

"Legolas is in good hands. My battle lies elsewhere." Ever calm, the king glanced out the window. The blue fog had completely turned into misty white, encasing the woodland realm in a beautiful and deadly embrace.

The wizard sighed. "Don't be foolish, Thranduil. Your child needs you now."

The king's eyes snapped back to Gandalf, and a phantom of a smile fleeted past pale lips. "My people need me." He gently touched Gandalf's arm. "I am their king."

Frustration choked the wizard as he huffed and coughed out a breath that smelled of pipeweed. "You are a father too, Thranduil," he exclaimed impatiently.

The king's eyes flashed momentarily, but before the wizard could discern the emotion in them, the light was gone. The elf studied Gandalf in silence. The wizard saw that he was not going to speak in response.

Gandalf crossed his arms, a frown creasing his forehead. "Tell me. This isn't just about the orcs now, is it?"

Thranduil remained silent as the wizard probed his eyes for an answer he was so sure of. The king slowly looked away, gaze resting on the obscured world outside the window. His voice was barely above a whisper. "I will not deny what you say. But it is not only about her."

"I know it is more than revenge," rejoined the wizard, moving to block Thranduil's view and looking straight into his eyes. "But wait a few days. Keep them at bay. You must think about Legolas."

"Aye, Mithrandir. That is why I must go." The king tilted his head, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. The wizard watched intently, briefly wondering at the amazing semblance between father and son. "I cannot help him here. My little babe fights for life as we speak. I must go forth to face my own battles."

The wizard sighed. He slowly shook his head, and stepped back. "Stubborn Oropherion," he grumbled.

The king smiled slightly at the accusatory glare. "There must be an end to this. The time is right."

"Are you sure it is?" The wizard's tone was doubtful. Thranduil slowly raised his hand and traced the wounds in his abdomen absentmindedly, eyes deepening with a faraway look.

"Legolas has seen enough deaths." His fingers lazily trailed down to the outlines of the sword strapped around his loose garb. A distant smile graced his fair features as his eyes softened. "I wish him to smile when he wakes."

The morning was hushed in a strange chill. The wizard swallowed. The king suddenly lifted his gaze, breaking out of his dream-like expression. The resolute gleam in the steel orbs had returned. He faced the wizard once more.

"I will end this today. He shall see no more bloodshed, not of his own kind. Not whilst under my protection – never again."

The wizard narrowed his eyes and scrutinized the elf. His disapproving gaze did not last, however; he sighed, and crossed the distance between them. His gray eyes were soft as he clasped the elf's shoulder. "I understand," he whispered. "I will watch over him."

Thranduil smiled more visibly this time, albeit a bit sadly. "Thank you, Mithrandir."

The wizard's gray eyes probed into the elf's younger ones for a lasting moment. His hands squeezed his shoulder painfully. "May you drive away your demons once and for all, my friend."

A ghostly smile flicked across thin lips. Then the figure turned swiftly. Leaving behind a cold breeze, the king was gone.

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_**  
To Be Continued**_


	10. The Last Stronghold

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, save the plot. Yes, the plot is mine.

Rating: PG-13...unless you have really vivid imagination and can see all the gore splattering in this chapter.

By Kasmi Kassim

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_**The Strength of One Green Leaf **_

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Chapter 10: The Last Stronghold

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Legolas was in pain.

The pain was not only in his shoulder. The flames of agony was surrounding him, licking his small body while dancing around him delightedly. Enfolding him in an endless cradle of scorching heat.

He ran, fumbling blindly through the mist.

Orcs he could handle – so long as he had his bow and arrow.

The fire, he could not.

He twisted his body and writhed as the flames chased him vehemently. The heated dance sang out to him, haunting him in its wild and shrill laugh.

Legolas stumbled, but immediately scrambled back to his feet. He ran, gasping for breath, tears stinging his eyes. Valar, hadn't he done enough of running away? Hadn't he done enough of fighting? Why did he have to be thrown into this again? Was it because he was not brave enough? He choked back a sob.

A harsh laughter tore at his ears. Legolas turned quickly to see an orc pointing an arrow at him. The elfling blindly backed away, fingers trembling as they reached behind his back. Before he could fathom what was happening, his bow was back in his hands, sending an arrow toward the enemy's doom. The orc gave a terrifying screech, and fell heavily onto the ground. The black figure molded into a puddle of ethereal light. Golden hair tumbled into a heap upon the soil. A frail white hand lay limp.

_You killed Nana._

Legolas screamed.

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Thranduil turned, eyes gleaming with a practiced decisiveness, as he called for the warriors to fan out. Horns sounded, screams ravaged the lands, trees groaned. Blood splashed upon twisted barks, drenched the tender seedlings. Spears and arrows pierced the blinding fog. Embraced by the unrelenting mist, elves and orcs battled, hatred clashing with bloody force.

"Do not step back!" cried the king of elves, spurring his horse at the lead as arrows came flying at his direction. "Protect our realm! They shall not break the spirit of Greenwood the Great!"

Great war cries followed as elves charged forward amid the swift onslaught of arrows. They could not see far through the mist, but they could hear the orcs well enough. There were masses of them, swarming in a sea of black. Slowly nearing in on them, chocking them, cornering them. The king gritted his teeth. This was going to be a bloody battle. A battle, he knew, from which they may not come out alive.

His breath hardly strayed from its steady rhythm when several arrows embedded themselves in his body. A wry smile grazed his lips as Thranduil nonchalantly pulled out an arrow from his side. It was unfortunate that Mithrandir had to be here at a time such as this. How he wished there was a way to get him out of here, into safety. Along with his little Greenleaf.

The world swayed as he spurred his horse forward again, a bloodied arm steadily raising a spear. The poison blazed into his veins, spreading a sickening taste in his mouth. The spear expertly cleaved the mist with tremendous speed, eliciting a sharp cry of death from the other side of the silver veil.  
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You gave him to me._

The great black bow sang death as it dispatched messenger after messenger of mortality. Death was opening its arms, welcoming the brethren of Arda as they slaughtered each other in burning hatred and rage.

With a roar, the orcs poured about the elves, breaking their line of defense. The king dropped his bow as he found himself surrounded by black hordes of glinting, hungry eyes. He swung a great spear in an arc, swiping out a dozen orcs in a swing of a slender arm dripping blood. A fountain of red and black drew a rainbow in the sky.  
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Don't you dare take him away now._

A swing. A dozen orcs fell backwards. Another swing. Another dozen.

And yet they kept coming. Their numbers were endless.

"Sire!"

"Protect the King!"

"My lord!"

Cries of dismay, screams of rage, shouts of desperation, determination, pain and hatred – it burned into his veins. It burned so painfully.

Thranduil gasped, eyesight dimming. Breathing became a labor when he realized that his body was swaying unsteadily. He gripped the horse's reins tight, and raised the spear once more. Elves were fighting their way toward him as orcs swarmed about. Swords glistened, arrows sang. The elven warriors thrashed, struggled, screamed, wading their way toward him through the sea of black. Bloody cries, hysterical laughter, desperate screams – and they continued toward him, elves and orcs alike. And more arrows lodged themselves in the king.

He was at the center of the attack; blood ran down his temples as he lifted his clear blue eyes to coolly gaze at the bloodshed flooding around him. He stopped pulling out the numerous arrows embedded on his back and shoulder. It didn't matter anyway.  
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If he be my son, he will fight._

The spear swung in the mist again, its bloody blade swiping at another dozen orcs. Thranduil was panting. Bright red seeped from underneath his armor.  
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Valar protect him._

The screams grew faint, echoing as if from a faraway place, obscured by the mist. The frenzied cacophony around him dimmed as the king's spear broke against a brutal grip of an orc. The world spun.  
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Valar protect my people._

Pale hands pulled out a gleaming sword in a flash, sending dizzying lights through the mist as the blade danced madly through the sea of blood. Thick rivulets of red streamed down from his temples and blocked his vision, and yet the king met and exterminated life with his blade as if possessed. And around him, shouts of anguish continued to dim.  
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Valar give me strength..._

The hectic maelstrom of sounds faded away, ringing in a strange quietude. Thranduil could no longer feel his arms as they swung sword and knife in each hand, could no longer feel the bodies falling at his strokes – could no longer feel the arrows digging into his skin. A darkness, a comforting silence, was all that enveloped him. And yet the vague ringing sound lingered. It rang louder and louder, until he could recognize the voice. The melodious laughter of a golden bell.

He closed his eyes as the horse underneath him shuddered and collapsed in a tumble.  
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No...I cannot go yet._

A faint smile. A welcoming hand. The comforting ring continued to resonate, embracing him in the warmth of darkness. He shook his head.  
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Not while he yet lives.  
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He no longer heard the elves calling out his name. Clutched desperately in the bloodied arms of a fellow warrior, the king's body slowly fell limp.

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A terrifying cry rang out in the air.

The healer jolted. Quickly rising from her seat beside the prince, she hurried toward the window and looked out into the fog.

Slowly, she backed away.

The fog was moving. Or rather, little black masses were moving from within it. Hundreds of them.

Paralyzed with fear, the healer backed away to the door, hands fumbling blindly behind her. The doorknob turned clumsily and the great door swung open. Her gaze was riveted on the window, vacant with terror. The halls were filled with panicked screams and shouts as elves ran about, weapons and armors donned or gripped in their hands. The healer looked around, eyes darting hysterically. Her voice caught in her throat. She swallowed hard, trying to quell her ragged breathing.

"The King..." Her voice was a hoarse whisper. Gradually it rose, until the halls rang with a shrill scream. "Where is the King?"

For if the orcs had managed to break through the magical gates, it only meant one thing.

"Calm yourself!" She felt strong hands clutching her arm from behind. Feebly struggling, she turned her panicked gaze to those of the warrior who had entered the prince's healing chamber not too long ago. His eyes shone fiercely under the white bandages wrapped around his head. "Get back into the chamber," he ordered, shoving her gently but urgently toward the door. "I will take care of this."

Gleeful yelps and shouts of orcs could be heard from just around the corner. The healer clenched the folds of her robe, knuckles whitening. The orcs had broken into the safe havens. The gates had been penetrated; now the foul creatures were stampeding into their unstained sanctuary.

She watched, rooted in place, as the warrior before her drew a sword. Blood slowly oozed out from underneath the bandages on his arm.

"Do not linger!" the warrior exclaimed, daring a glance over his shoulder. The healer stared ahead at the approaching enemies, unmoving.

"Stay with the prince!" It was no use. The healer was motionless. She slowly raised her hand. When the sentinel looked back, mind racing with panic, a strange light was shining from her eyes. Her lips began to move in silent whisper.

The warrior looked about and, to his horror, saw that all of the healers had exited their chambers and stood outside their doors, lining the hall of the House of Healing. All of them had an arm outstretched, with the same light in their eyes, whispering the same incantation.

The orcs were racing toward them when they suddenly jolted and wobbled, as if the rug underneath their feet had suddenly thrown them off balance. They stumbled, grunting in surprise, as their feet danced uneasily about them. The floor seemed to refuse to be stepped on by their feet. The ground of the havens was sending waves of violent rejection upon the foul feet that trampled on it.

The warrior glanced at the healers, understanding lighting his eyes. The elven magic was failing, and the healers were now pooling their powers together to keep the it alive. If only the king's strength remained, then orcs would never have been able to remain standing here...

He started. A commotion broke out from behind the hesitant band of orcs. Suddenly there were orc bodies flailing about, as if some giant plow was closing in on them from the back. The orcs turned their attention toward the entrance through which they had entered and, screaming in rage, rushed toward the entrance. A brilliant beam of light poured out from that direction.

Blood-wrenching screams and painful cries were short lived. Black bodies catapulted, scattering against the walls and floors in a heap. From around the corner, Gandalf appeared in a huff, surrounded by a band of wounded elves. He spotted the healers standing together, and quickened his pace. Among the wounded were several elves, whose conditions seemed to be relatively well, and were carrying something – or rather, someone.

"My lord!"

The healers instantly broke out of their trance and rushed forward to the king. The wizard looked around. "Where is Legolas?" he demanded impatiently. His hair was a tangled mess, his sleeves torn. It was apparent that he had waded through his share of the bloodbath. "Place him with Legolas. Guard the chamber. The magic will not hold unless the king recovers." His face was set in a scowl.

When the king was hurriedly taken into the chamber, Gandalf whirled around and hurried out the door. "Remember," he called, "guard your king!"

The elves needn't have been told. The wounded, who were previously trickling into the House of Healing, were once again donned in armor, weapons ready in their hands. The healers, save the one who was in charge of the king and prince, pooled together once more. The gates creaked as orcs from the outside pushed. The healers' chants became more fevered, desperate.

Standing in her chamber once again, the dark-haired healer looked down at the king and prince. Lying side by side, father and son both lingered on the brink of death. She closed her eyes, hoping fervently that the king would be strong enough to repel the poison from his body in time. The gates were creaking dangerously.

Pale fingers intertwined, and the healer bowed her head as she clasped her hands tight. A soft prayer slid from trembling lips.

With a roar, the gates swung open.

Unsteady hands smoothed the creased brows of the king as he battled the poison raging in his veins. "I beg you, my king," whispered the healer, willing her magic to soothe the pain burning in the warrior's body. "Rise among us again."

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"Death to the orcs!"

As mighty as he was, adrenaline rush was fast dwindling. Gandalf breathed hard. If only he had gotten enough rest! If only Thranduil had not been injured prior to the battle! He cursed. _So these creatures think they can take over Mirkwood, do they?_ He glared around the battlefield sourly, forcing another painful squeeze out of his drained magic.

"Mithrandir!"

He scowled as elven warriors battled their way toward him. "Don't worry for me, you fools! Protect your gates!"

Though the magic gate was already opened by force, the wizard and the elves still stood before it, defending the castle from the overwhelming waves of invaders. The orcs that had already penetrated their defenses would have to be faced by the elves within the castle. After all, every dweller of Mirkwood was capable of battle. Gandalf only hoped that there would be enough of them left within the palace walls.

"Don't pull back!" The wizard's light blinked dimly as he spurred his horse back and forth amid the fray. "Darkness shall not prevail!"

But Gandalf turned, horror-stricken, when an uproar could be heard from behind.

The orcs had breached the defenses from the side. Though not many were able to struggle into the narrow path that lay unprotected, a thin stream of them were trickling into the castle with victorious howls. They resembled a marching army of ants. The wizard turned away, once again facing the hordes pushing in from the front. It was up to the healers and maids now.  
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_**To Be Continued**_


	11. Blood Upon the Sanctuary

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine...save that little healer.

Rating: PG-13

Author's Note:

Me: 19-year-old Asian female on her last quarter of freshman year in the University of Washington, where you are either very friendly with rain or it's just _too bad._ Interested in visual arts, animation, drama, fashion design, creative writing, journalism, singing, piano, violin, viola, yada yada yada. In other words, a major ART FREAK.

Wanted: ugly to moderately good-looking male, preferably own age, who does not drink or smoke or do drugs or do anything else rated R, to engage in a deep, friendly and honest relationship in which we can sit down and have a thought-invoking, in-depth discussion about the cause, effect, emotional depth, power and influence of the vast world or fanfiction.

But can be female too.

...

I'm kidding. Stop running away, all of you. School just started. End of story.

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Quote of the Day: "Thranduil got hurt! Omg...Just one thing: don't kill him. Please. He is too handsome to die." –by Brazgirl, from review for Chapter 10

By Kasmi Kassim

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_**The Strength of One Green Leaf**_

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Chapter 11: Blood Upon the Sanctuary **_

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The wounded warriors within the castle put up a valiant battle. Numerous orc corpses lined the floor and walls; the wounded had dispatched more than twice their own number in their failing strength. But in the end, after the final elven sword had hit the soft carpet, injured bodies of elves lay strewn among dead orcs in the halls.

The dwindled number of orcs moved on in uncharacteristic haste, not bothering to finish the feebly breathing lives of the elves. They were eager to claim their final trophy of victory. And thus the black masses moved on in a rush, their foul stench mingling with the bloody moans in the halls. The scarlet carpet darkened with blood.

Magic no longer pervaded the castle grounds as the intruders trampled on the richly decorated floor. Doors swung open, and orcs peered in through every chamber. The halls and chambers were all deserted.

Soon, heavy footsteps could be heard invading the House of Healing. Even the healers and young maids had gone out to join the fight, or had fallen in the face of orc blades while defending their grounds. The castle was now devoid of elves – save one healer and two royal patients.

"It's all ours," snickered an orc delightfully. The other orcs threw their heads back and laughed. Crackling in their harsh voices.

Then one of them stopped.

"I smell something," he muttered. He slowly moved toward the last healing chamber in the hall.

"The elf-king." The other orcs followed, their paces quickening with excitement. They were soon trampling over each other, madly rushing toward the great wooden door. Just beyond the dark wood lay the ultimate prize. Their paces were frenzied, breaths mingling in heavy pants and shrieks of ecstasy. Before they reached it, however, the great door swung open.

And closed.

The orcs backed away in surprise as a flowing robe of rich green danced before their eyes. In front of the closed door stood a single dark-haired elf. In her hands gleamed a bronze candle holder taller than her height. Her long sleeves swayed gracefully, brushing the carpet with a gentle caress, as she slowly spread her feet, eyes fixed on the orcs. Pearlescent arms rose from the depths of deep green fabric, knuckles white as slim fingers tightened around the long shaft and slanted it to bar the door. This soft-voiced healer now stood alone between the band of orcs and her king.

Recovering from the momentary surprise, one of the orcs began to snicker. Soon the whole horde was laughing, some even stomping their feet or rolling on the ground with glee and amusement.

"Move, she-elf," sneered an orc, barely constraining his laughter. The healer tightened her grip on the candle holder.

"You shall not pass." Her voice was low, unwavering.

The orcs continued to grin, relaxing their holds on their weapons. At last, they had had reached their destination. This pitiful attempt to shield the king meant victory was within their grasp. "Your loyalty is touching," mocked an orc gruffly. He raised his blade. "We'll send your king after you soon enough."

The sword came down with a vicious swing. An ear-splitting screech ensued.

Without budging from her place before the door, the healer stood holding her shaft against the steel of the blade. Slender white arms trembled as feet slid on the carpet; yet she did not yield, and held her stance.

"You shall not pass," she hissed between gritted teeth. The rigidity of her body suddenly cracked, and she moved swiftly in fluid motion. The bronze flashed in a streak of gold. The opposing orc flew onto the other side of the hall.

The healer stood straight, dark fire smoldering in steel black eyes. She positioned herself again for battle; the long shaft drew a deadly arc in the air. Drawing a long slant across the great double door, the shaft barred the entrance once more.

Cries of rage and pain ensued.

When the orcs that had not received the succeeding blow looked up from their crouching position, the healer stood yet with fierce determination lining her soft features. More bodies lay scattered in the area. The remaining orcs attacked with a growl; they pounced at once, blades glistening with red blood. The candle holder swung once again in the air in desperate defiance.

"You shall not pass!" The cry tore from her throat as the bronze flashed, drawing an invisible web of arcs in last line of defense.

Red blood splashed onto the dark wooden door.

The orcs pulled back, snickering. There were several more fallen orcs lying about, whose bodies the remaining ones kicked out of the way. The untouched orcs eyed the great door with dreamy anticipation. Triumph lay before their eyes.

The healer slowly pulled herself up to her feet, but fell again onto her knees weakly. An orc kicked her face, effectively removing her from his path. Gasping, the healer rolled onto her back, shutting her eyes in pain. A broken murmur could be heard hovering on her lips; her pale fingers moved painfully. And she went still.

The leading orc grabbed the doorknob. A smirk drooled down his lips. His eyes shone with dark malice.

"You...shall not...pass..." choked a feeble voice by his feet. The orc looked down in surprise, and saw the healer pry herself off of the carpet to latch onto his leg. A growl slid past his lips; he shook his foot irritably, but she clung on with vehement tenacity. The orc cursed, and raised his sword. The healer closed her eyes, unmoving.

The blade came down.

Black blood splashed onto the ivory walls.

The orcs shrank back, screeching in terror, as a surge of light poured upon them. Where the doors stood was a threshold of blinding white. From within the threshold, a silver blade gleamed by the healer. Black blood dripped down onto the prone body of the orc lying next to the wounded elf. A pale hand emerged from the light.

"Rise, Ethelia."

Trembling, the healer slowly raised her eyes. Her dark orbs widened, riveted on the sight before her. Tearing her eyes away, she immediately crouched again, touching her head against the blood-drenched carpet with a deep bow.

"My lord." The whisper was hoarse, thick with emotion.

From the brilliance of the light emerged the king of elves, holding the bloody sword in his hand. He was clad in a loose robe that barely concealed the numerous bandages underneath. However, his steps were firm; his eyes were as cold as ice.

"None shall bring blood upon our havens and live," said the king, his low voice emanating harnessed wrath. The voice rang with steely resonance. The orcs bared their teeth, but none dared to move from their huddled position on the opposite wall.

Thranduil stepped forward, slowly raising his sword. The blade was now pure white with blinding radiance. The king's body was encompassed in the threshold of white, shining with powerful magic as he eyed the orcs steadily.

"The Firstborn have treaded upon the land since the golden days, untouched by fear of evil." The sword began to shimmer with a pale blue glow. The king's voice rang with growing strength. "The song of Arda runs in our veins, and its melody shall live on to the end of time."

The healer raised her eyes when she felt a tremor in the air. The hall was quiet save the voice of the king, and yet her eardrums screamed with a thunderous roar. The Quenya rune slipped from the king's lips and traveled swiftly about his body, entwining itself around the king, wrapping him in layers of enchanted protection with growing speed and volume. The beats of magic pulsating around the king were deafening; the invisible runes of old shone before the eyes of the healer, shining in ethereal brilliance. The long-lost songs of life, the gentle whispers of the sun and the stars, powerful prayers of the moonlit rivers and rolling valleys – the voices of those that have lived and passed on before their time embraced the king in a fevered chant, a maddening dance. Treading upon the ancient grounds of his havens and enveloped in the protection of his forefathers' magic, the king now stood untouchable. The pulsation of the magic grew wild and frenzied as the silent incantations continued to weave in and out between the king and sword, increasing in its heat until the healer shut her eyes, plugged her ears – and the light intensified, the invisible runes running throughout the palace, spreading their light, as the blinding power magnified around the king –

"So be gone, cursed race of demons; leave this place and be no more!"

There was a tremendous explosion of light.

The healer fell to her knees, coughing up blood and clutching the carpet tight. The ground beneath her shook violently. Looking up, she saw the orcs flying toward the entrance as if struck by a mighty hand of one of the Valar themselves.

The orcs screeched and clawed the walls in desperation, but to no avail. The invisible force swept the creatures swiftly and mercilessly out of the palace grounds. The entire castle structure seemed to be glowing with the incandescent light. The healer could feel the maddening pulse of the magic flying around her, climbing higher and louder and faster – the ancient songs of Arda bursting in powerful harmony, as the dark forces were violently repelled. A welcome darkness overtook her vision, leaving only the sounds and vibrations of the magic, as she shut her eyes.

She could no longer hear the orcs; the pulsating drumming of the frenzied chants of magic began to die away, leaving her ears ringing in a soft hum. The shaking underneath her had stopped before she had realized it. Hesitantly, she released the breath she had been holding. She opened her eyes slowly.

They had won victory.

Tears blurred her vision as the healer collapsed onto the floor, trembling. Her body was hot with elation and veneration; weakened nerves shook with the magnitude of what she had just seen. Never before had she witnessed, or felt, the work of elven magic at such height of power, for the havens had never been invaded before.

The king slowly lowered his blade. He looked toward the quaking healer, and bent his back to reach his hand out to her once more. The radiant light was fast fading, but his body still shimmered with a pale blue sheen. He looked utterly ethereal.

"Rise, my healer," ordered a gentle tone she had never before heard from the king. The healer bowed deeper, not daring to raise her eyes, as she crouched humbly at his feet.

"My king."

Disregarding the elf's reverence, the king promptly took her hand and hauled her up to her feet. The healer took a deep breath. Her hand tingled with electrifying sensations as sparks of intense magic still emanating from the king traveled down her body.

"Go into the chamber and drink what you gave me – it's in the ewer; I did not finish all of it," ordered Thranduil, scouring the numerous bodies that lay around the floor. The healer stood still, eyes pale and unsteady, unable to speak.

When he was met with silence, the king turned to look down at her. His eyes softened upon the slender elf who stood helplessly among the heap of bloodshed, pale face marred with blood of her own.

"Fear no more, for the breath of the land is awakened," he said gently. "All evil that attempts to set foot in our realm shall be banished."

Before the healer could respond, he was gone from her side, briskly moving toward the entrance. The healer cried out, choked voice catching in her throat. The taste of blood spread in her mouth. The king glanced back, and stopped. His eyes were cool and steady as he regarded her, his loose garb flapping gently in the draft stirred by dying magic. His grim mouth moved to form a reassuring smile. The soft voice overwhelmed her with comfort as he turned and disappeared out the door.

"Rest, brave warrior. I will return shortly."

Ethelia sank to her knees and wept.

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The elves and the wizard watched, awestruck, as the entire havens flared up in ethereal brilliance. Enveloped in blinding white light, the castle sent wave after wave of dazzling luminance in immeasurable speed; the invisible power swept over the haven grounds, spreading under the warriors' feet and hitting the orcs with a deafening roar. The screaming creatures flew away as if they were nothing more than dry leaves. The fog also began to clear; it was as if a massive gust of wind was blowing away the mist along with the vile creatures.

Within seconds, the gates swung shut, the engraved runes radiating with a luminescent white aura. Powerful beams of pale blue began to shine down upon the awed elves; Gandalf could sense the eruptive surge of magic shifting beneath the lands. The wizard narrowed his eyes. The masses of orcs were being blown back further and further away from the palace; soon, they would be back where they started, in the southern parts of the forest. Gandalf pulled distractedly on his beard, taking care to remember the spectacle unfolding before his eyes.  
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And those who bring blood upon the Firstborn's sanctuary shall suffer everlasting doom.  
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The elves leaped off of their horses – most of them slid off, rather – and dropped to their knees when their king stepped out of the palace, sword in hand.

The wizard dismounted slowly, taking deep breaths of the cleared air, as Thranduil acknowledged every one of the warriors with a respectful touch of the heart, for which he was presented a humble bow in return. After finishing his individual greetings and words of concern, the king finally turned to the wizard. Gandalf watched with a bemused smile as the king waded toward him, dark blue robe fluttering gently in the breeze. "I see that you reawakened the ancient rune, my friend."

The king tilted his head, allowing a light smile that sent a twinkle into his clear blue eyes. "I am shaken myself," he admitted, glancing back at the glimmering castle. "I only learned the spell as a child, the same way I taught mine – never have I have witnessed the holy magic, let alone feel it coursing through my body."

Gandalf made a face. "How right you are, for once. You risked much back there, you reckless fool of an elf."

For only one elf had ever called upon the dormant power of the elven magic – and had paid dearly for it.

Thranduil cocked his head, eyes twinkling with young mischief. "To save much, one must risk much." He shrugged.

Gandalf scowled, but could not help the smile creeping in from the corners of his lips. Leave it to Thranduil to summon the ancient spell he had never seen and let it take control of his body. This elf was born to become nothing less than a king.

With a half-scowling grin, Gandalf clasped the elf's shoulder. "You fool. I knew we could rely on you."

Thranduil shook his head, stepping back slightly. He presented a solemn bow. "You have my deepest gratitude, Mithrandir."

Gandalf quickly grabbed the king's garb and pulled him up, nearly choking him in the process. "No need, you fool. Stop your courtesies."

The elf smiled once again, weariness emerging from his dry lips. He turned to the soldiers around him.

"Gather the wounded."

The warriors stirred into action, murmuring and calling out among themselves. The blue sky looked comfortingly down upon them; the sun was beginning to peek over the clouds once again.

The wizard and king stood still, side by side, eyes lingering on the southern horizon. A wistful smile tugged at the king's sculptured mouth. He dug his blade nonchalantly into the earth, and leaned heavily upon it. "So much for a war to end it all, I must say."

The wizard snorted. "Thank the Valar that you still have a head upon your shoulders."

Thranduil laughed quietly, a breath of a sigh touching the edge of the clear laughter. His eyes looked far out into the trees, a sad light lingering within the orbs. "Aye."  
_  
Another day of fighting. _The thought floated in his mind like transparent silk, delicate and easy to brush away – but nonetheless swirling in inextricable patterns. It danced atop his mind tauntingly. _Another bloody war._ The king bit his lip.

The wizard seemed to read his thoughts. Gaze locked on the horizon as his friend's, Gandalf reached out and wrapped his rough fingers firmly around the elf's clenched fist. "You have driven them back, and your realm is safe." The murmur caressed the weary king soothingly. "They will return, but what matters is that you protected your lands today."

Nodding, the king closed his eyes, letting another sigh escape his lips. He stood still, allowing the gentle breeze to enfold him in its comforting touch. A bird was singing in the distance.

Eyelids gradually slid open, and deep blue pools of light slowly came back into focus. The king furrowed his brows as his expression became distant and concentrated, gaze lingering lazily on a nearby tree.

Gandalf noticed the sudden alertness. He raised his eyebrows. "What is it, Thranduil?"

Before the elf could answer, Gandalf suddenly turned toward the southern horizon, staring at the distant trees as did his friend. He grabbed his horse's reins. "Is that fighting I hear?" he muttered breathlessly, as the king quickly leaped onto a nearby horse and broke into a canter.

The scattered warriors followed the king and wizard in haste. The clamor was coming from the south – the direction in which the orcs had just been blasted away by the holy magic. It led to the western path. The elven warriors and wizard galloped forth in silent dread.

The battle was over by the time the Mirkwood elves and Istari reached the site. The forest path screamed of a swift and bloody encounter. Thick black blood dripped from twisted barks of aged trees, and weighed heavily upon tender young leaves. Countless bodies of orcs lay scattered in the area. A cool silence regarded the carnage with detached calm.

Thranduil slowed his horse to a stop. Meeting his eyes were the coal black depths of a dark-haired elf.

The forest fell into a silence.

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To Be Continued**_


	12. Return to the Past

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine...save that little healer. And the plot, or course.

Rating: PG-13

**Quote of the Day**: I loved the chapter! You didn't kill him but you also made him SUPER POWER! Because that's what he is! Powerful! and handsome. –Brazgirl, from Review of Chapter 11

By Kasmi Kassim

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_**  
The Strength of One Green Leaf**_

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Chapter 12: Return to the Past

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A horse grunted, shifting with impatience. The elves remained hushed.

The king stared mutely at the dark eyes that steadily gazed back. A golden banner flapped high in the wind.

Apprehension hung tightly in the air as the two bands of elves regarded each other in stoic silence. Gandalf tapped his staff upon the ground anxiously. He wanted to greet the other party, for he had been friends with them as long as he had been friends with the royal house of Mirkwood; however, a flicker of wisdom in his heart advised him to keep silent. Better to let them choose the course of action. Hopefully the young ones would act wisely.

It was the dark-haired leader of the opposite party who moved first. He dismounted from his chestnut steed; his fluid movements were unhurried, thoroughly composed. He held an air of authoritative weight, an aura that demanded respect without demanding. Eyes were riveted on him as he placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head.

"An era ago, a tragedy occurred which terminated the friendship between Greenwood and Imladris." His voice was low, gentle – and yet a rich dignity lingered beneath. The groaning trees hushed into reverential silence. "After many years of foolish pride and fear, the gulf between the two realms was finally to be bridged – but another unfortunate tragedy left the bridge uncrossed."

Thranduil sat atop his horse, still as stone, his eyes hauntingly staring at the elven lord and the bowing entourage before him.

The dark-haired elf looked up and met the king's eyes. "Late is the hour, but I beg thy welcome as I tread upon this forsaken bridge."

The tension in the air was leaden. The sorrow that underlay it sang among the trees with a haunting whisper. The sunlight sifting through the trees floated over the elven company with a phantasmagoric melody.

The king shifted. Gandalf thought he caught a glimpse of a tremor in his even gaze. Slowly, cracking the petrified silence of the forest, Thranduil dismounted. Despite his injuries, the young king moved with effortless grace. Lacking in the rich, deep dignity of the dark-haired elf, the blue-eyed king radiated life from his light, muscular body, somber though he was.

Time seemed to stretch into a continuum of painful stillness. The tension mounted as the woodland king reached his hand up. Thranduil slowly pulled his loose robes about him, and tucked the wayward edges securely in around his waist, concealing the bared chest and bandages lining the muscles that rippled beneath. The dark-haired entourage watched with apprehension akin to alarm.

The king brought his hand upward again and, with agonizing slowness, touched his heart, bowing his head deeply. Bright golden hair streamed over broad shoulders, absorbing the soft caresses of the sun. A clear tenor voice vibrated solemnly among the hushed trees.

"Hail Elrond, Lord of Imradris."

The quiet voice ricocheted off of the silent trees, ringing in a lasting echo. The rich baritone of the dark-haired elf vibrated in return, tendering the breaking tension in its gentle embrace.

"Hail Thranduil, King of Mirkwood."

The two elves lifted their gazes. Rich dark eyes met pale blue ones.

A symphony of relieved sighs could be heard as elves from both parties released the breaths they had been holding. The elves broke into a stir, voices murmuring and feet scuffling as they intermixed in relief and apprehensive interest. Gandalf smiled to himself, and arched an eyebrow when Elrond shot him a glance and made a slight bow. The lord of Rivendell turned back to Thranduil as the king took him by the arm to lead the way.

"Well met, Elrond. It has been long." The icy blue eyes that had stung so ferociously with hate many centuries ago shimmered in the soft glow of the sun. His voice was low and tranquil. "You are most welcome in the Woodland Realm."

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Pale lips murmured fevered whispers as gentle hands caressed a damp forehead. Elrond shifted, pulling up the rich sleeves of his robe. Thranduil and Gandalf stood by the door, watching the lore master's ministrations with apprehension. The wizard's worn hand rested comfortingly on the father's shoulder.

When Elrond raised his head at last, Thranduil crossed the space between them hastily. "Can you heal him?"

Elrond creased his brows, and continued to stroke the trembling child's forehead. "He is already healed, Thranduil. Your healer has done her part well."

The king's jaw clenched. Gandalf closed his eyes with an inaudible groan, lifting a hand to massage his temple. He remembered well how conversation took form last time the two lords exchanged words. He sighed, and prepared himself for an impatient outburst from the son of Oropher.

He looked up, surprised, when it did not come.

Thranduil stood still, gaze locked on his elfling, as Elrond looked up at him with calm eyes. "Ethelia said his heart is suffering," he said quietly, voice tight with strained emotion. Elrond nodded.

"His heart suffers, yes. But he does not wish to bare it to any other." He glanced back down at the elfling, and returned his gaze to the king. "Will you sit, Thranduil?"

The king slowly took a seat beside the dark-haired elven lord. Gandalf leaned against the door and crossed his arms. This was beginning to look...interesting. Perhaps fatherhood had matured Thranduil a bit.

Elrond watched the king's profile as Thranduil stared at Legolas. The king's hands clenched painfully at his hanging robe.

Thranduil swallowed. He was a king who could defend his kingdom against the onslaught of evil, and yet...  
_  
As a father I can do nothing. _

His eyes were choked with a wild array of emotion as he sat helplessly at his child's bedside. A wan hand slowly reached out to touch a limp one belonging to the lifeless body of the elfling.

"I have called for him to return to the light, but he does not answer." The dark-haired lord was speaking slowly, thoughtfully. Gandalf pulled uneasily at his beard. He knew how powerful Elrond's summons were to the ailing; something had to be troubling the elfling deeply.

"His heart has been heavy," continued Elrond. "It looks as though it has been greatly lifted as of late. I presume it is your doing, Mithrandir?" he glanced back at the wizard. Thranduil looked back at Gandalf in surprise. Gandalf coughed a bit uncomfortably, and waved his hand.

"Just a talk."

Genuine gratitude filled the father's eyes as he regarded the wizard in silence. When Gandalf began to pull on his beard with increased haste, he turned back to the elfling.

"If his burden was lifted, why does he suffer so?"

Elrond narrowed his eyes contemplatively, stroking the creased brows of the elfling. He did not answer. The question lingered in the air, haunting the fearful father with a torturous echo.

Finally, the lord of Rivendell turned to look at Thranduil. His stern gaze was resolute.

"I know it is not my place." His words were measured, deliberate. "But I must know the circumstances surrounding his mother's death. He calls for her."

Thranduil's face paled.

A tense silence settled in the chamber as the king remained still. Time seemed to have frozen for the king. His unseeing eyes were pale and blank, his mind reeling backwards – reaching into the forbidden recesses of time which could not return.

Gandalf watched in alarm as the king raised an unsteady arm. Shielding his eyes with his hand, Thranduil lowered his head – trembling with an unreadable chill that haunted his heart. His body swayed unsteadily.

Elrond's steady gaze bore into his. Velvet warmth underlined the steel that glowed within the depths of his orbs. "Tell me, Thranduil." Turning away from the elfling, he reached out and gently grasped the king's pale hand. "Tell me what happened that day."

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To Be Continued


	13. Reliving Nighmares

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine...save that little healer. If you read the previous chapters, you know whom I mean. ;)

Rating: PG-13. No more gore. Yay.

By Kasmi Kassim

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_**  
The Strength of One Green Leaf**_

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Chapter 13: Reliving Nightmares

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The sun was already rising midway through the sky. Legolas hummed to himself as he ran a hand adoringly down his mare's back. She grunted and lazily cocked her ears back and forth. The elfling giggled, and tiptoed close to her left ear.

"Guess what, Loriel?" he whispered, cupping his mouth with small hands. "We're going far away today! We're going to Rivendell." With a delighted laughter, he fell back onto his heels and pranced around the horse in excitement.

"Rivendell! I get to see elflings! Nana said there are elflings!"

"Calm down, little Greenleaf," called the queen with a smile, adjusting the stirrups for her stallion. "We must be prepared to leave as soon as Ada comes."

Legolas giggled. He stopped and looked wonderingly up at the clear blue sky. He perked up, and turned to his mother with enthusiasm brightening his eyes. His smile vibrated with powdery dusts of golden light, scattering and filling the air, soaring into the sky with his melodious laughter.

"Look, Nana! That squirrel is carrying something!"

Indeed, a squirrel with a bulge in his cheeks scuttled past the elfling and disappeared into the bushes. Legolas ran after it, laughter echoing merrily into the forest.

"Don't get too far, Legolas," called his mother. "We must set out soon."

_Don't get too far, Legolas._

The elfling stopped. He looked around, slowly taking in the misty outlines of hushed trees. Where was he?

Why did he hear his mother's voice?

He looked back when he heard a distant laughter. It was approaching him from the mist. Legolas grimaced; everything he had encountered in the mist so far had been unkind to him. He wondered what had happened to his father.

As he watched in grim anticipation, he could make out a faint outline of a running creature. It was an elfling. Laughing, he emerged from the fog, and ran toward Legolas' direction. Golden mane bounced gaily in a single braid.

Legolas stared, instinctively fingering his own hair. There was no elfling as young as himself in all of Mirkwood.

When the elfling came nearer, Legolas froze. He blinked, and rubbed his eyes. The happy laughter echoed in the mist, ringing in the sinister hush of the trees. Legolas' hand trembled as he rubbed his eyes again. But the image was no ghost. It was no trick of the eye.

That elfling was himself.

Dizzying thoughts shot through his mind, clouding it, blurring it. What was the meaning of this? Was it another form of a scheming orc? He watched, dread slowly spreading in his stomach, as the elfling approached.

The elfling continued to run happily, laughing and giggling, as if he had no cares in the world. He did not seem to notice the evil mist. He did not seem to notice the strange silence of the forest, or the gnarled trees entangled into each other in a thickening web. Most importantly, he did not seem to notice Legolas.

Legolas stared, disbelief and dread mingling and polluting his senses, as the elfling ran closer and closer.

And ran right past him.

For a moment, Legolas stood still, shock rendering him speechless. That elfling – that creature who looked just like himself – ran by as if he didn't exist! Was he an apparition? But he could clearly see footsteps in the mud. _And, by all means, _Legolas reasoned with himself, _why would I see a vision of myself?_

He shook his head. That could not be a vision. There was no reason for him to see himself like this. He had had many visions of Nana, or Ada even, when he had nightmares – but never had he seen himself this clearly. It was not reasonable.  
_  
Unless..._

A coldness crept through his stomach. His blood slowed, veins slowly contracting in a chill.  
_  
Unless I am..._

He whirled around to see the figure disappear into the fog. His muscles suddenly broke out into convulsive movement; his throat burned from a cry that did not sound. He lurched forward.

"Wait!"

He broke into a sprint, following the elfling – who was undoubtedly long gone.

The fog grew thicker and thicker. As he continued onward, determined to learn the truth behind these mysteries from the elfling, Legolas felt his stomach sink heavier and heavier. Something about this path was familiar. What was it? He had been here before...

He stopped, terror freezing his blood. This was the path that he had taken just this morning – or was it dawn? – when that evil orc dragged him to a cliff of some sort. He had said something about Nana...

Legolas frowned. That elfling had run to that clearing. That place was indeed dangerous; he remembered vaguely that there had been a spider. Spiders, cliffs, orcs...no, that place was dangerous. Legolas moved forward, anxiety gripping his heart. He had to stop that elfling.

He did not run very far when he felt strength leaving his body. Legolas panted, gritting his teeth in frustration. Whatever had befallen him, he could not recall; however, it was apparent that whatever he had gone through did leave him considerably drained. Strangely, it seemed as though he had been running a lot lately – though he could not remember when or where. He clenched his fists tight. He wanted to stop, wanted to go back into the light and rest. But he could not abandon that elfling in the mist. It was too dangerous. Even if the elfling was an apparition of himself...

_I must find him, _he thought determinedly, wading through the thickening mesh of branches and thorns.

"Wait!" he called again, hoping the elfling would be nearer. After all, the elfling was slightly smaller than himself, and perhaps Legolas was close to catching up. "That part of the forest is dangerous!" He hoped the elfling had not gone too far.

"Legolas!"

A panicked cry rang out into the air. Legolas nearly stumbled. Quickly regaining balance, he turned to find a lady running toward him, her azure blue dress flying in the wind. Her deep blue eyes glossed with panic, gold hair rippling out behind her. Legolas' eyes widened. He could no longer feel his nerves; it was as if he was detached from his body, watching himself from afar. A strangled voice caught in his throat.  
_  
Nana._

His body refused to move, refused to obey the screaming orders to approach the golden lady. He was rooted where he was, as she hurried by him as if oblivious to his presence. He slowly turned and watched on, horror-stricken, as she entered the clearing and whipped out something from her sleeve.

A scream tore through the air.

Legolas' blood chilled. He stared at the obscured clearing, that clearing where he had seen Ada just this morning – or was it this morning? His memory was so fuddled – as gurgled shrieks and a young scream mingled savagely in the blue-gray mist.

It took every ounce of willpower to break out of his rigid numbness, to break into a run. Soon, nimble feet were flying on the dirt, desperation lacing the frantic steps.

Legolas entered the clearing and stopped abruptly, feet skidding on the soil.

In the corner of the clearing lay a dead orc, a long, white-handled knife lodged deep in its throat. Nana stood not too far away, holding another keen dagger that looked exactly like the one buried in the orc. She was poised protectively before a bewildered elfling. The elfling was pale and wide-eyed with fear; a trail of blood oozed down from his back. Facing the queen and child was a band of snickering orcs.

Fingers trembled as Legolas gritted his teeth, forcing a shaky arm to reach behind his back. But he found, to his terror, that he no longer carried the bow and arrow. Panicking, he groped behind his back; still nothing. He didn't remember dropping them anywhere – why did they disappear? He watched, blood lurching in his stomach, as one of the orcs lunged forward.

A cry tore from his throat as the queen threw her remaining dagger at the advancing creature. It neatly embedded itself at his neck. The monster crumpled at the spot.

The queen reached down to clutch at her elfling as the orcs slowly neared her, grinning. She was now weaponless. The elfling was clinging onto her dress, watching with terror-filled eyes. The queen closed her eyes, and then opened them with determined ferocity. Deep blue orbs glittered viciously as she began to whisper an incantation.

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The air in the room was heavy. Gandalf was the first to break the silence.

"So that's what you meant by not being able to relieve him of guilt." Leaning back against the door, he began to pull out a pipe from under the lines of his robe. Elrond glanced over his shoulder with disapproval evident in his somber eyes. The wizard grumbled and put the pipe back in its place.

Thranduil, seated before the bed beside Elrond, did not acknowledge the silent exchange between the healer and wizard. He seemed completely removed from this world, hopelessly lost in the dark nadir of the past. His head was hanging low, face buried in tired hands. Stifled whispers silenced by the lines of the sleeves, raging emotions muffled within the thick folds of fabric. He did not move.

Elrond turned back to regard Thranduil, his deep gaze encompassed in silent warmth of gentle ember. The coal black eyes traveled slowly over the figure of the king, deliberate and yet feathery in its distant caress, as if he could wash away the pain reverberating from within the elf with his gaze alone. The king's mighty shoulders were hunched, the strong body throbbing with powerful emotions trapped within, struggling to trap them within. Fiercely swallowing down the surge of emotions that threatened to burst forth. The wounds were reopened, and bitter grief washed over the elf afresh. Five years was too short a time. Elrond gently placed a hand on the king's shoulder.

"I will do my best." The words promised nothing, guaranteed nothing – and yet the stiff shoulders relaxed visibly. Something about the rich, vibrating tone forthcoming from the mighty healer sent a comforting touch to the darkest abyss of the soul. Thranduil let out a weak breath, and straightened his back with effort. He turned when he heard a cough from the doorway.

"A moment, Thranduil, if you will," said the wizard, clearing his throat. He glanced at Elrond, and then at Legolas. He raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Thranduil, whose haunted eyes stared blankly back. The wizard turned and exited the room.

Thranduil sighed, and reluctantly pushed himself off of the chair. His steps faltered, catching onto the carpet wildly. Quickly grabbing the back of the chair, he regained balance, brows furrowing in annoyance – but not before Elrond rose, quick as lightning.

"You are still unwell." His voice was alarmed, eyes scouring the king's pallid body sharply. The king shook his head, and turned toward the door. Elrond grabbed his arm, startling the fair-haired elf.

"You must go to a healer once you finish speaking to him." It was more a command than anything else. Thranduil turned to him impatiently, but heated words died on his lips when his eyes met Elrond's. The air thickened with tension. Wordless emotions swirled in the air, crashing against the motionless bodies and reeling minds with deafening silence. At length, the younger elf looked away.

"When the healers finish tending to my warriors." The words were quiet, almost fading away to be absorbed by the thickened air.

The older elf tightened his grip slightly. His voice was stern. "You know as well as I that there is no healer in this kingdom who is not injured. Come to me."

Thranduil did not answer. Elrond studied the young king's set jaw, and released his arm. Shimmering gold flashed and disappeared around the corner as the king hastened out the door.

Elrond slowly sank back into the chair. Pressing his temple wearily with a finger, he slowly scanned the elfling, taking in the details of his features. His eyes softened upon the sight of the child. What a gem this elfling was.

The child could be described in no words less than beautiful. His soft, babyish features bore a striking resemblance to the famous queen of Mirkwood, whose melodic voice and radiant beauty was renowned in Imladris and Lothlorien alike. Startlingly pale skin and long, dark lashes emitted the breath of the one who had ceased to walk upon the lands. And yet he also bore resemblance to his father; instead of the deep gold color of the queen's hair, the child possessed thin, light strands of pale gold that stood in between the queen's rich color and the king's fair shade. Elrond gently ran a finger down the child's round chin. No doubt these features would chisel out in time. He would have a stubborn jaw – just like his father. Elrond smiled.

"Legolas, son of Thranduil," he murmured, stroking the child's pale forehead rhythmically with gentle fingers. "Your heart is being destroyed by sorrow."

He stopped, taking time to gather his thoughts. Continuing to caress the elfling's forehead, he spoke again.

"But you must remember the grief you would be placing upon your father, young one, should you choose to fade away."

The child was deathly still, the ashen features motionless. Elrond thoughtfully held the elfling's small fingers in between his own, scrutinizing them.

"Open the gates, young one. Open them for me. I am here to help you."

The chamber was silent save his quiet voice. Elrond slowly bowed his head near the elfling's face. He closed his eyes and, pressing gently on the child's heart and forehead, began to whisper softly.

"Return to the light, Legolas. Return to us."

A warm, luminescent white light gently enveloped the elfling in a tender embrace.

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Thranduil walked slowly through the corridor, deep in thought. The cavernous halls were dark; torches lined the walls, burning with dank melancholy. This part of the palace seemed to be subdued into an eerie gloom. He smiled wryly. Perhaps the castle walls had read his morose contemplation of the past. Or perhaps the spirit of the queen haunted these halls. He walked deeper and deeper into the lower levels of the castle.

A slight sway was an involuntary movement he had not expected. Frowning, he reached out and placed his hand tentatively on the wall. The walls of this region were not polished and decorated as were the festive sectors of the upper halls; this part of the castle remained dark and damp, the walls rugged and coarse as they had been when first found. A smooth floor and stairway, and a line of torches burning bright, were the only signs of life having touched these regions. Thranduil stopped, and leaned heavily against the jagged wall. The chill of cold stone touched him flat against his back; he shuddered, but remained where he was. It was a welcome chill. The events of late had fevered his mind.

The king let out a breathy sigh. His body was in need of respite, but his soul could find no rest. He was still listless, mind dizzy with the waves of memories crashing in from the past and present. It had happened too fast. And it had been too short a time. Releasing a smaller sigh, Thranduil closed his eyes. How he wanted to forget.

It had been one of the most glorious days of his reign. Mirkwood had hailed the king with reverent joy, as he had decided to end the years of tension between his land and Imladris. The young monarch was the first to take the initiative, having declared his willingness at last to let his forefather's feuds lie at rest. It was to be a day recorded in history, the day when the gulf between the two realms were finally bridged, the feuding lords reconciled, a new friendship and alliance forged. Excitement and euphoria had ascended high above the trees of Mirkwood. Happiness seemed to find no way to rise any higher.  
_  
Which it didn't._

The king broke out of his reverie, and pulled himself off of the wall. Letting the quiet darkness of the unused passage overwhelm him once again, he resumed his steady gait. Gandalf was waiting.

He wondered what the wizard wished to speak to him about. Perhaps it concerned Legolas. After all, he had asked Gandalf to help him...

Thranduil's pace increased slightly. _I must thank Mithrandir when I see him, _he reminded himself, looking straight ahead at the looming darkness only broken by torches lighting the way. He knew Gandalf was regularly spending time with the prince, but was not aware that he had managed to lift such a heavy weight of guilt from the elfling's shoulders. Legolas' burden had been great, he knew, but the king had not found the strength or courage to confront it himself, for he was plagued by demons of his own. The young father sighed as he trudged forward.

There was always death. There were always questions, cries of anguish. They lingered among the haunted whispers of the trees, deepening the sorrow of the ones left behind. Thranduil had seen more than his share of those.

No one had thought that the glory of the day would be broken by the unexpected oncoming of the mist. Even Thranduil himself hadn't realized the danger until it was too late.

If only he had ordered the guards to investigate sooner, they would have been aware earlier.

If only he had given orders not to bring out the horses so soon, the queen and prince would not have gone out ahead.

If only he had made the queen and prince wait for him to attend to his advisors, he would not have had to run out too late.

If only the queen had been armed properly, she may have had a chance.

If only they had not been cornered, if only the elfling had not been wounded, if only the queen had not fallen over the ravine...

...If only he had gotten there in time.

Thranduil shut his eyes tight, stopping in his tracks as his world swirled in a darkening blur. His body swayed. He clenched his fists, knuckles tensing as veins protruded tightly from beneath the pallid skin. _No more, Thranduil, _he whispered fiercely to the darkness. _No more. _

The king shook his head, and resumed his gait with steely resolve. He was a warrior, a leader who made life-altering decisions in split seconds. And never looked back. He had done his share of what-if's over the years, had his share of guilt and pain. But no more. He had to move on, for the sake of his little Greenleaf.

When he entered the wine storage chamber, he had to halt in his steps and squint, for torches were blazing brightly on the walls. The entire room was bathed in a warm glow of gold. When his eyes adjusted to the luminance, he spotted the gray-clad wizard standing among the wooden crates of wine in the far corner of the room. Back turned toward the door, his head was bowed, keen on inspecting something in his hands. Thranduil tilted his head and remained standing where he was. He waited patiently.

Finally, Gandalf turned his head to face him. Thranduil's heart sank when he saw the wizard scowling. What could possibly go worse now?

The wizard turned fully, and the king noticed a bottle of wine in his hand. It was a rare vintage wine, a Mirkwood traditional, unusually dark of color and sweet in taste. Gandalf was scowling darkly at him. "All these years you have known me," he said menacingly, "and you never told me you had _this_?"

Anxiety lifted, the king could not help but let out a soft laughter. He approached the wizard and took the bottle. Turning it over in his hand, he studied it carefully. "Mithrandir, if only you had asked-"

"Hmph," grunted the wizard, grumpily moving onto the opposite side of the room. Thranduil turned to face him, a light smile playing upon his lips.

"I believe some rest is what you need more as of now, Gandalf. We can always drink later."

The wizard grunted again, and tapped his staff on the floor. Then he turned, eying Thranduil with narrowed eyes. The king raised his eyebrows. The wizard turned and exited the room. Sighing, the king followed.

The walk in the torch-lit corridor was a quiet one. Only steady footfalls broke the silence surrounding the king and wizard. When Gandalf spoke at last, Thranduil was jolted out of his deep thoughts by surprise.

"You told me," said the wizard slowly, "that you want your child back."

Thranduil watched the wizard in silence. The wizard did not face him. His eyes were only upon the dimly lit hallway, which seemed to stretch on without end.

"He was a singing, merry child. Yes?"

Thranduil nodded, dropping his gaze to his feet as damp silence reigned in the passageway once again.

Gandalf stopped when the brighter-lit halls came into view. He turned and faced Thranduil. Unfathomable gray probed deeply into forlorn crystal pools of blue.

"How is a hatchling to learn to sing again, if the birds in his nest no longer do?"

Gray fabric fluttered gently. Leaving the silent elf rooted motionless in his place, the wizard turned away and disappeared down the hall.

_**,**_

_**,**_

To Be Continued


	14. Farewell

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine...save that little healer. If you read the previous chapters, you know whom I mean. ;)

Rating: PG-13.

By Kasmi Kassim

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_**The Strength of One Green Leaf**_

_**,**_

Chapter 14: Farewell

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_,_

Nana...

Legolas' feet were rooted upon the ground. He stood deathly still as the earth beneath him rumbled. The orcs screamed and floated onto the air, clawing tree branches and trunks as they were swept away – and yet Legolas stood where he was, untouched by the vicious squall that whipped the elfling and his mother. The queen held out her hands, rough gusts of light swirling around her violently.

"Give us protection, and shield us from evil!"

A wave of white tore out of the havens and rushed into the clearing, crashing into the land with tremendous force; the ground shook vehemently, tossing the elfling and the queen off of their feet.

"Nana!"

A ravaged cry tore from Legolas' throat.

The queen's body was dangling precariously on the edge of the outcropping. Beyond the chasm lurked a darkness, the same darkness that Legolas remembered seeing this morning – or whenever it was – when the orc had taunted him about something.  
_  
This is where you left your Nana to die._

The hot chill that had crept up and slowly conquered limb by limb now spread ablaze like wildfire, scorching his body with its ruthless icy heat. Legolas could not move, could not speak. Nor could he blink, or look away. He stared, frozen cold in the entrapment of heated agony, as he watched the elfling bend down toward the mesh of weeds in the darkness – which he finally recognized as a spider's lair. Legolas watched, eyes glazed and pale, as the elfling feebly pulled at his mother's dangling hand with his miniature ones.

"Hang on Nana," he cried, tugging at the blood-soaked hand. "Hang on..."

The strain was evident in his tight voice, the quivering body. Legolas finally cried out; the ragged voice scarred his throat, burning its way out into the cold tranquility of the fog. He struggled against the invisible bonds that held him in place, body shaking convulsively. His cheeks were cold with tremulous tears. Why did he have to go through this again? Why did he have to relive this nightmare? Why did he have to watch on as his mother died a second time? He cried out again, a hot, broken wail.

The queen looked up at her elfling, a gentle smile spreading across her pallid face. Her pale knuckles trembled as they gripped the brittle soil. With a crackle, small pieces of dirt went tumbling down the cliff. "I will climb up, little Greenleaf. Now run back to the castle."

"But Nana..." The elfling's voice shook in a helpless whimper.

"I will come after you," reassured the queen, her lips blossoming into a warmer smile than before. Her deep blue eyes shimmered, a vast dancing ocean. "You must go ahead of me, since you cannot run as fast as I can. Those monsters will try to come back for you."

The elfling's lips trembled, as he made another feeble attempt to pull up the queen. She shook her head. A pale hand hung limp at her side, crimson blood pumping out of the forearm. "I will catch up with you, Legolas," she whispered fiercely. "Then we will go to Rivendell together." Her face was sheathed in a clear sheen of sweat. Her voice quivered, attempting to mask the strain crushed underneath.

Then her eyes softened, gaze locking with the trembling elfling. She smiled again. With effort, she slowly raised the limp arm – and touched the elfling's face with the lightest of feathery caresses. Her hand trembled as it left a bloody trail upon her child's temple; the hand left the face, caressing the outline of his jaws, often coming close enough to touch the smooth skin – and yet hovering, the bloodied hand painfully quivering above the skin. Her eyes glazed with trembling silver.

Then she dropped her arm. Her jaws were set, teeth clenched. She breathed a fierce whisper.

"Run, little Greenleaf. Run."

Swallowing hard, the elfling reluctantly released his hold. With a nod from the queen, he hurriedly scrambled to his feet. The nimble legs gained speed as he ran out unto the forest path. He glanced over his shoulder, anxiety raising an edge to his voice. "Promise to come quickly, Nana!" A thin trail of blood followed him as he disappeared into the fog.

The queen smiled.

Legolas screamed.

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The halls were bustling with activity. Elves lined the floor, lying on their backs or sitting wearily on thin blankets, while younger elves busily scuttled among them with herbs, rags and other paraphernalia. The House of Healing was overflowing with patients; the fact that numerous healers had been wounded in battle added to the chaos of the palace. It was no minor miracle that there had been no deaths.  
_  
Ironic, _thought Thranduil grimly, as he waded through the moaning elves on blankets spread on the floor. _We owe victory to being so close to loss. _If he hadn't fallen, if the orcs hadn't been able to break through to the castle – then they would most probably be fighting still. Much blood had been shed upon the invasion, but the orcs would not have been dispelled with such force if they had not set foot upon the havens. He smiled wryly. It was a lethal gamble, but the stars had shone in their favor.

The king shook his head to clear his thoughts as he was reminded of the one who had dared to call upon the magic beyond the protected havens.

A healer straightened his back after tending to a wounded warrior, scouring through the crowded bodies in the hall. His eyes caught the sight of the king slowly walking among the wounded. A drape of dark blue wavered rhythmically in his gait, revealing and concealing in a caressing tide the white bandages that outlined his chest. His long sleeves could be seen trailing his path with a gentle flutter. Eyes downcast and hands outreached, the king's lips moved quietly and consistently, occasionally turning upwards for an encouraging smile, as he grimly treaded among his people, speaking to them, commending them, comforting them, encouraging them. His platinum hair tapped lightly against his back as he picked his way through the crowded floor.

Thranduil was upon the door to his son's healing chamber when the male elf approached him. He turned, solemn eyes unfathomable as they regarded the sandy-haired healer. This healer was no exception from the number of wounded; he sported a fractured arm and a tightly bound shoulder.

Bowing slightly, the healer raised his voice to be heard above the painful moans and whimpers filling the halls. "You must allow me to see to your wounds, my lord. You have been negligent of yourself."

With a dismissive wave of a hand, the king opened his mouth to decline – when he was cut off by a sudden crack of an opening door.

A pair of dark eyes regarded them with an indiscernible expression as the healer and king both turned in surprise. The dark-haired lord turned to the healer with a kind smile. Thranduil watched curiously, noting how stern, and yet so warm, those deep orbs were. Perhaps it came with age. Or it came with having known much, seen much – and to have lost much. Elrond of Imladris was not among the most penetrable elves he knew.

"No need to worry, young one. Your king has promised to let me see to his wounds."  
_  
I did not know that, _mumbled the king inwardly, as he watched his healer retreat to the great hall with a bow. Elrond turned to Thranduil and pulled him into the chamber, closing the door behind them with no less dignity, but with a strange sense of urgency.

The king needed no prompting from the elven lord to look toward his child in alarm. He hastily crossed the space to his elfling's bed. Elrond watched in silence as the anxious father bent over his elfling with searching eyes.

"How is he?" the voice was apprehensive. Elrond reached out and pulled the king's sleeve. Taken the surprise, the king soon found himself guided across the room and seated upon an adjacent bed, blinking at the healer with a blank stare.

Elrond's expression was still unreadable as he rolled up the lengthy fabric of his sleeves.

"I will tell you while I tend to your wounds."

The king sighed in exasperation. But he voiced no protest, and remained still while Elrond removed the loose robe from his bandaged shoulders, baring the skin with experienced hands.

Elrond's eyes were fixed on Thranduil's wounds as he undressed them deftly. "Your child was suffering nightmares."

Thranduil eyed the lore master with impatience. Elrond seemed absorbed in his work. His fingers were flying around the wounds, ever careful not to cause pain. The king could feel the vibration of magic tingling from the healer's hands. The sparkles of magic were infinitesimal, and yet he could feel the immense power pulsating behind the feathery touches. It was brighter, more reverberant, than any magic of healers he had faced. Thranduil took a deep breath.

"It seems that he encountered the same orcs that were there five years ago. They were bent on destroying his mind through memories."

Thranduil's eyes darted back to his motionless child.

Elrond reached for a small vial resting on a nearby table. His eyes were focused on the semi-transparent content he poured out from the clear container. "I used Gandalf's words to seep comfort into his subconscious mind. He is relieved of nightmares, and once more free of the weight of guilt." He applied the balm with gentle fingers.

Thranduil continued to stare mutely, and suddenly grimaced as the dark-haired elf pressed a grimy mixture of semi-ground herbs to his wound. Biting pain flared throughout his body. The king bit slowly onto his tongue.

Holding the herbs firmly in place, Elrond studied the king. "His subconscious mind sensed that I was trying to probe into it, however, and shut me out. Now he is beyond reach."

The king's eyes flashed. Elrond removed the herbs and began to bandage the wounds expertly.

"I have called for him repeatedly, but he does not heed my call."

"What can we do?" The king's eyes glittered wildly, piercing into the gaze of the healer. Elrond stood and cast a glance at Legolas. Then he tensed, alarm invading the impassive mask.

"He is moving away as we speak."

The father sprang to his feet, startling the lore master. Thranduil strode over to the elfling's bed vigorously, eyes set ablaze.  
_  
Oh no. No._

He bent over his child, golden hair tumbling over his shoulders and touching the elfling's cheeks, as his hand caressed the motionless face. The chiseled jaw tightened.  
_  
Don't you take him away from me._

Shrugging the hanging garb off of his shoulder completely, Thranduil climbed into the bed and pulled the child to his breast.  
_  
Don't you take him away from me...!  
_  
"Don't give in, my little Greenleaf," he whispered fiercely, wrapping his arms protectively around the delicate little body. "Don't you leave me."  
_  
If the prince be truly one of you and the queen's blood, then he will have the strength and wisdom to endure this grief.  
_  
Thranduil stroked the golden head, nuzzling the pale neck as his lips moved in fervent whisper.

"Come back, Legolas. Come back to me."

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Legolas was tired.

He rubbed his eyes, and wearily looked around at the foreboding mist of the dark forest. The trees twisted their way up to the darkness, gnarled and rough. A heavy silence thickened through the pale silver fog. Legolas wondered drowsily why he was here. Did he not see his father with a big spider before he found himself walking in this direction? What had happened?

He had no clue as to where he was headed, or where he came from. The elfling sighed resignedly.

Finally, he stopped walking. Perhaps it would be wiser to stay still, and let Ada find him. He frowned. Ada must be really worried by now. He had to go back. What had happened with the spider anyway? And that orc...

"Ada?" he called, and jumped when his voice echoed ominously among the trees. He looked around uneasily. Perhaps he was too far away to be heard. Had he come the wrong way?

The elfling looked back at the direction from which he came. He was surrounded by fog and twisted trees; there were no clues to show him the way back to Ada. Legolas stood still, and then plopped down where he was, ignoring the chill seeping up through his tunic. It was not wise to wander away blindly. With a long-suffering sigh, he crossed his arms. And waited.

It was not too much later that he heard a distant melody. A mysterious echo of a song. The elfling perked up, raising his eyes to scan the trees.

Sinister as it was, there was something familiar about the haunting melody. Legolas found himself rising to his feet, drawn to the sound as if pulled by a magnet.

The music grew louder, carried by the whispering wind. A gentle flutter could be heard from behind. Legolas whirled around.

A soft laughter rolled melodiously among jagged outlines of the trees. Legolas' eyes widened. He turned again, but found only the trees looking back at him with a stoic mask.

A light brush of fabric swept the ground. Legolas turned more swiftly this time, and caught a glimpse of azure blue disappearing into the fog. He darted after the disappearing figure.

"Nana!"

He could hear the music floating away, drifting among the trees like fluttering silk. Glimmering blue fabric danced among the silver fog. Gritting his teeth, the elfling willed his weary legs to run faster. His body was rekindled with an explosive fire. Nana was there, just beyond this mist. He could feel it!

And then, he turned his head in surprise.

Something was ringing behind him. A voice.

"Legolas!"

A distant call. Ada was calling.

Legolas slowed, mind racing with panic. Ada was near. What to do?

He watched, helpless, as the blue dress drifted out of his sight. He bolted again. He had to catch up with her. If he lost her now, he would never see her again. He knew it.

"Wait, Nana! I'm coming!"

Ada's voice grew distant, more frantic. Legolas' palms grew slick with sweat. Ada was searching for him desperately. His lips trembled; he could not lose her again. How could he let her slip away from within his reach? He silently begged his father to stop searching, to stop calling. He had to see her again.

The mist cleared. Legolas' feet stumbled, and skidded on the soil. He gasped, and quickly came to a halt.

Before him was a large portal of ethereal light. Legolas stared, amazement striking him speechless, as the dazzling white light glowed welcomingly before him. Before the threshold stood his mother, a mysterious smile playing upon her lips. Rich gold hair cascaded down her back, embroidering the flowing azure dress. Deep blue eyes shimmered with warmth, the long black lashes casting wondrous shadows upon her cheeks.

Legolas stood as if paralyzed. She had not changed at all. After five years, here she was again, as she had promised. As if – it had all been just a dream.

The queen did not call out to him. She did not hold out her arms. She stood before the luminous portal, watching the elfling with an expression of sorrow and overwhelming love. Legolas' eyes were riveted onto hers. Silence reigned.

Legolas took a step forward – and faltered. He looked behind him.

"Legolas! Where are you, Legolas? Answer me!"

The voice was getting more distant, more desperate. Screaming thoughts clawed his mind. He had to go back to Ada. He couldn't worry Ada any more than he already had. He had to go back into his arms, reassure him that he was safe.

But...

Frustration mounting inside him, he took another tentative step forward. The queen moved slowly toward the portal. Legolas's body froze with fear.

Standing within the glowing threshold, the queen turned to him, a gentle smile caressing her lips. Legolas moved again, and she watched on. Her body began to glow with the same fluorescent light as the vortex she stood upon. The elfling stood where he was, not taking a step further. His round eyes were silver with a glimmering sheen. He reached out, ragged voice catching in his throat. A strangled sob choked out from the elfling.  
_  
Can't I touch you...even once?  
_  
Small fingers trembled violently.

"Legolas!"

Legolas turned his head, looking out toward the misty path. He dropped his hand, clenching it into a fist. He knew the peace and warmth that lay beyond that gate.

"Legolas! Where are you? Come back to me, Legolas!" The frantic cry was moving away. More anguished, more heart-wrenching. It clawed into his heart with agonizing heat. Legolas clenched his teeth, eyes glazed with thickening tears.

Shoulders square with resolution, the elfling whirled toward his mother. A silent tear rolled down a rounded cheek.

"I'm sorry, Nana," he whispered. More tears rained down the porcelain skin. The crystalline drops shattered against the earth, quenching the dark soil with a mournful cry. The elfling's lips moved one last time for a voiceless whisper. "I'm sorry."

He turned, and ran back the way he had come.

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Thranduil's eyes fluttered open. His remained still, heart racing heatedly within his body, when he felt a squirm. It was faint, but it was there, the soft warmth brushing against his bare skin. A soft outtake of breath could be heard from the head buried in his chest.

He quickly looked down at the bundle in his arms, detaching himself just enough to see the face of his elfling.

Half-lidded eyes gazed back at him groggily. Thranduil's eyes widened, fingers frozen where they lay wrapped around his elfling's body. Legolas blinked, trying to clear the haze from his eyes.

The father swallowed hard, his throat tightening with emotion. The elfling's eyes slowly moved up and down and around, taking in the view of his whereabouts. Then his eyes snapped wide open.

"Nana..." The clear orbs stared hauntingly through the air.

Thranduil could find no words. Instead he caressed his child's hair, lips trembling and eyes wide, as he dared to let out a shaky breath. Thirstily drinking in the sight of his golden light.

Large blue eyes stared into his own. "Nana came." The voice was a whisper.

Thranduil nodded, swallowing hard again, willing his burning heart to pour out the heated agony through tremulous sighs. The elfling continued to stare, as if he could see the dream again by looking into his father's eyes. "I didn't go to to her." The elfling swallowed, suddenly overwhelmed by the realization of what he had done. His dark lashes trembled. "You were calling." His voice thickened, wavered.

Thranduil closed his eyes, letting out a final quavering breath, before opening them again. He pulled the elfling's head close. "Neither did I."

Not trusting himself to speak further, he tenderly planted a soft kiss on the elfling's forehead.  
_  
I knew you would return to me.  
_  
The child stared at him with unsteady eyes. A translucent tear slid down from the large blue pools. The tear rolled down solitarily, embracing the elfling's pale face with a gentle caress. Legolas blinked.

Without a word, the father gathered his child into his arms. Small hands reached up slowly to clench at a robe that was not there, and then the fingers weakly clung onto warm skin, finding their way up to the soft hair. The body slowly curled up against the wall of muscled chest, head buried in the golden screen. The small body shook as large hands stroked the warm head. A muffled sob broke out from under the curtain of gold. Thranduil closed his eyes.

Glistening trails of silver tears spread against the king's bare breast as he lay with his elfling, father and son sharing in the grief.

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_**To Be Continued**_


	15. Gathering Broken Shards

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine...except for one little elf.

Rating: PG-13.

Author's Note: I really didn't mean to make anyone cry. Nor did I imagine that I would have the ability to wring tears with my writing. _I_ didn't cry when I was pulling out my hair editing and revising that last chapter. But I am so moved that numerous reviewers found the last chapter to be touching. Thank you all for your wonderful reviews and support! They really do mean o so much.

Quote of the Day: I wish I were Legolas for a moment... you know, hug with Thranduil's bare chest. Er anyway, great chapter. –Brazgirl, from review of Chapter 14

By Kasmi Kassim

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_**The Strength of One Green Leaf**_

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Chapter 15: Gathering Broken Shards

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Upon entering the quiet healing chamber, Gandalf stopped to allow his eyes to adjust to the light filling the room. Sitting in the hazy sunlight spilling in through the window was the hunched figure of the king, watching over his slumbering elfling. The sun caressed golden hair with gentle warmth, casting shimmering reflections about the room. A blissful peace enveloped the quiet chamber. The wizard may have mistaken the father and son as a pair of exquisite sculptures, had the elfling's small chest not been rising and falling rhythmically.

The wizard stood still, watching the two elves bathed in golden light. The peaceful hush of the room resonated in a silent hum, a phantasmagoric melody of yore that gently haunted the air.

Thranduil slowly raised his head. His eyes were soft, gaze lucidly floating on the wall. Dark lashes hovered halfway over hazy blue pools, entwining with the golden shards of the sun and casting a dancing prism of light upon his eyes. His hands hung limply over his knees.

"I had forgotten," said the elf quietly, turning his head to watch the small life breathing beside him. The chest rose in minuscule movements; the pale face was still, but the warmth of the fragile body glowed faintly with the returning song of life. Thranduil's gaze lingered over his elfling in silence.

The king turned his eyes toward the wizard. His eyes had never before looked so ageless, so silver deep. Gandalf returned the ancient gaze soothingly.

"I had forgotten how to laugh, and to sing – and had passed the grief to my child."

A pale hand caressed soft baby hair ever so gently, hovering over the face with utmost tenderness. Thranduil's eyes were watching his elfling's face once again.

"Perhaps I had been afraid."

Gandalf remained still as the king brushed his fingers over the small body reverently. Thranduil's broad back was tired, alone – and yet an air of steady strength remained about him, gently wrapped in the silent golden hum.

The king bent down, eyes closing as he brought his ear close to the child's beating heart. His fingers brushed lightly over porcelain skin.

"I had been afraid to face the sorrow of his heart – so immersed was I in my own grief."

He slowly raised his eyes, meeting those of the wizard. He rose, and made his way toward the gray-clad Istar. His voice was a whisper.

"You were right, Gandalf. Father though I was, I feared stepping forth to cross the distance between us."

Gentle dances of dust particles could be seen in the air as golden fog trickled in about the room. Swirling lazily, dreamily – the specks of memory continued their never-ending dance, embraced by the furry caresses of the sun. Thranduil's eyes glimmered softly as they became lost in the warmth.

The somber quietude was gently broken by the wizard's smile. Gandalf reached out and clasped the elf's shoulder. Thranduil bowed his head gratefully.

"You are a good father, Thranduil," whispered the wizard.

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Mirkwood was bustling with commotion. Walking alone through the halls at a leisurely pace, Elrond took in the liveliness around him with bemusement. King Thranduil had insisted on holding a feast for the entourage from Rivendell, as it had already been delayed by the efforts to recover from the catastrophes caused by the orc invasion. Elrond had graciously declined the offer, but Thranduil was not one to be wavered easily. _After all,_ he had said, looking at him directly in the eye – those bright blue eyes were quite unnerving when they pierced at one with such steadfastness – _other ceremonies will be held in concurrence with the feast. _There had been many young elves who had proven themselves worthy in the recent battle to defend their home, and a large number had been selected to let down their childhood braid. And of course, Elrond could not refute that point.

Wandering toward the healing ward, Elrond found himself wondering about that elfling of Thranduil's. Such a precious little jewel, that child was. And so young...

The lord of Rivendell sank into deep thought, recalling the first time his own children had first let down their hair. It was quite some time ago, but even then, they were older – considerably older, in fact – than this son of Thranduil. Perhaps it was largely due to the fact that Imladris was relatively well protected, and innocent little elflings had no need to pick up a bow and arrow in their hands. Elrond lowered his head. Perhaps therein lay the king's dilemma.  
_  
Legolas had always fancied healing – until the incident. _The king had stared at a chirping bird outside the window as he spoke, seated by his sleeping child. _I do not wish him to lose his braid just yet._thought the elven lord, as he strolled slowly past the scurrying elves. Elflings were tender at such an age. Though the prince obviously possessed extraordinary talent inherited from his father, there was no great need to hasten the ceremony with such a young child. Elrond knew well that marking an elfling with a symbol at that age could easily bend a supple young mind to unconscious acceptance and self-identity; such an act could determine the rest of his life, for better or for worse. It was definitely wiser to wait to give the prince his warrior plaits. At least until he had decided for himself what he wanted to be – warrior or healer, or perhaps even a minstrel; he did seem to have quite an aptitude in that field, after all. And judging by Gandalf's remarks about the child, he possessed great talent required of a potential diplomat even. Yes, the child could wait until he was old enough to receive his marks as one able to defend his own home regardless of his social role.

Understandable,

Elrond smiled to himself. Never before had he come across a parent who was distressed about his elfling's achievement, or so disinclined to give him the plaits of a warrior. But he also held sympathy for Thranduil; after all, he had never seen an elfling worthy of the braids at such a young age. What an unusual dilemma this was.

"But he said I killed her."

He stopped in his tracks, senses mildly alert, when he heard a thin voice seeping from a healing chamber. He looked around and saw great dark doors lining the hall in which he was standing. Why was he standing here again? Oh yes, he was back to check on the patients. Though Elrond had been periodically treating the patients in the castle, the elves of Mirkwood had been horror-struck at the thought of being examined by their honored guest and begged him to leave the patients up to the native healers. Thus the lord of Rivendell had been occupied with only the royal father and son. Whose healing chamber, he noted, he was about to enter.

Well, he_ was_ about to.

"No, Legolas, you did not kill Nana. Don't you ever believe that."

A firm note underlining the gentle voice halted his train of thoughts. Elrond instinctively strained his ears, but he could not make out the soft murmurs that followed.

"No, little one, there is no shame in fear. There is no shame in pain, or in tears. The only shame lies in cowardice."

There was a moment of silence. Then a young voice queried, "What is cowardice, Ada?"

Elrond stifled a chuckle. Despite what he had been told by Thranduil and Gandalf regarding the elfling, he could find no trace of a shadow in the child. True, a motherless child could be more thoughtful and observant than most other elflings that age – but what could possibly mar this innocent curiosity?

Though mindful of the fact that his present behavior passed as eavesdropping, the lord of Rivendell stood yet before the door, curious as to the king's answer.

"I will tell you after the banquet," came the gentle tenor, ringing softly beyond the wooden doors. "And," added the king's voice, now with a tinge of humor – to Elrond's instinctive sense of dread – "We must let the healer in, to see you one more time before the feast."

Elrond groaned.

When he was met with silence from within the chamber – presumably filled with an elfling's questioning eyes – he had no choice but to assume that Thranduil was awaiting his entrance. Taking a moment to compose himself, Elrond pushed the door open and entered with well-mustered dignity.

He was met with a sight of the king seated on the bed, holding the elfling against his chest with arms draped protectively over the child. The king sent a gracious bow from his entangled position, but Elrond noted with a raise of an eyebrow that a snicker was rather poorly concealed by the mighty King Thranduil.

With a dark glance only noticeable to the king – who indeed pretended not to notice – Elrond knelt down to the elfling's eye level in front of the bed. The young king's amusement at his expense was rather richly compensated by the sight of an awakened elfling, he had to admit. The child's large blue eyes twinkled with a vivacious light that could only be described as the song of the stars, the breath of Arda, the Mandos' fire. The vitality in the eyes was that of his father, though the soft edges of the innocent lids could be traced to the benevolent queen. He smiled kindly at the blinking elfling.

Legolas stared with open curiosity, but whether it was for courtesy's sake or unease at the proximity with an unfamiliar elf – Elrond couldn't tell for sure – he remained snuggled against his father's chest, bobbing his head for a distracted bow.

"Legolas." Thranduil, looking down at the elfling attached to his robes – Valar, who knew Thranduil was capable of such a gentle smile? – nudged his child's round cheek with his finger. "This is Lord Elrond, the one who helped you heal."

Large eyes blinked, and he bowed again, this time a bit more composed. Elrond bowed back, a smile of amusement and affection for the little creature rising from the depths of his heart. Legolas then continued to stare. He turned his gaze to his father, the loose hair falling back as he tipped his head back to gaze up at the king's face hovering high above his own. He was apparently trying to categorize this elf and figure out why he was here. Elrond watched on in silence, curious as to what the elfling's reasoning would be.

"Ada," whispered Legolas, cupping his mouth as Thranduil leaned closer with attention, "is this your friend?"

Elrond, who could well hear the child's whisper, felt his heart skip a beat. The look on Thranduil's face was carefully masked, but nonetheless it declared his loss for words quite clearly. Elrond himself was at a loss. Leave it to an innocent child to probe old wounds and bring great lords to shame. His gaze now lingered on Thranduil, who was contemplating his answer. The vibrant air in the room stilled in quiet apprehension.

Slowly, Thranduil picked up Legolas by the armpits and shifted him onto his lap, pulling him closer against his chest. "Yes," he said, eyes downcast and voice musing, as he stroked the elfling's cheeks. Then he looked up and met Elrond's frozen coal eyes. The king smiled, a hint of youthful light shimmering through the tranquil paternal air. "Yes, Legolas. He is my friend."

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The feast was lively, to say the least. Flowers lay scattered about the floor and the walls, and graced the waves of elven hair, dappling their lovely complexions. The soft petals incessantly rained down from the brightly-adorned creatures onto the carpet. Alluring swirls of color bloomed and faded on the crimson floor, as voices soared in enthralling joy.

Elrond watched the dancers in awe. These Mirkwood elves really knew how to enjoy themselves. Perhaps it came with being in constant danger, being always alert and ready for action. Or perhaps they were more acutely aware of the sorrows and joys of the land, being wood elves. He absent-mindedly fingered his goblet of wine.

He had heard the excited whispers in the halls; he knew that this was the first grand feast held since the death of the queen. He did not see Thranduil all day since the healing chamber – but he could feel the heart of the king as acutely as his own. He, too, had breathed the same quiet breath, had closed his eyes in such a way – when he first picked up a mithril circlet after the departure of his own beloved.

Voices rose with elation; smiles and bows were humble yet bursting with joy. Enchanting dances of color and form melted against his eyes with maddening animation and splendor; he could hear the soul of the forest, feel the songs of Arda and the stream of life flowing in the hall and circling the pavilion under the open sky. The children of Arda were singing and dancing their rapture, their sorrows, their gratitude – unconstrained emotion flew out from the pulsating colors and songs, elves losing themselves to euphoria as their beloved king lifted the sorrow from his eyes.

Elrond lowered his lids and sipped from his goblet, listening to the mesmerizing music of the elves as the sweet taste of Mirkwood wine spread pleasantly through his senses. He felt himself relaxing, which was quite uncharacteristic in given circumstances; after all, he was a guest – and a formal one at that – and was drinking strong wine before a king with whom he had had less than pleasant dealings in the past. However, he felt at ease; these people were elves, and respectable ones. The king was not one to be guarded against, for Thranduil, as stubborn and somewhat rash as he could be, held intense distaste for ulterior motives and hidden grudges. If the Mirkwood king held the lord of Imladris in an unfavorable light, all of Mirkwood and Imladris would know it. And one glance at the king told the dark-haired lord all he needed to know.

Elrond turned his attention to the king and prince, who were seated across the table. Thranduil, with one arm loosely encircling his elfling' waist, was watching the festivities with genuine interest, seemingly absorbed in the ecstatic performances. Legolas' large eyes were also riveted on the musicians and dancers before him. The prince was now clad in a light blue tunic, his small hands barely visible from the cavernous sleeves of the garment. The golden halo of hair hung in a single braid down his back. Elrond scanned the large hall, his gaze briefly resting on each of the elves who were newly named capable warriors in the ceremony preceding the feast. The ceremony had possessed grandeur and honor befitting the festivities that followed, and by the time the victuals and celebration began, nearly fifty young elves were solemnly declared new defenders of their home – among them a number of practicing healers and poets. The king himself had bent down to personally loosen the single braid of each elf's hair and craft it into three elaborate plaits. The youngest elf in the kingdom had watched on in curious awe; it was apparent that Thranduil had explained to him – in simple terms, of course – why he did not want his little Greenleaf to be given the mark of a defender yet. So now, the prince was the only elfling in the realm to have proven himself worthy and not been given the warrior plaits.

Oblivious to Elrond's observation, Thranduil turned to reach for his goblet. The two lords' eyes met. In an isolated moment of deafening silence, two pairs of eyes bore into each other with enduring intensity. The brief – but seemingly everlasting – moment ended when Thranduil slightly tilted his head. Holding the lore master's gaze, the king slowly raised the goblet. Elrond also picked up his goblet with a hint of a smile, and solemnly raised it, mirroring the king's gesture.

Fireworks shot up into the night sky, embroidering the velvet darkness and eliciting cries of joy and excitement, as the two elven lords drank to each other in silent salutation.

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To Be Continued


	16. I Shall Never Leave You

Disclaimer: You know the drill.

Rating: PG-13.

Author's Note: Got nothing to say, except for a big THANK YOU to all you kind readers who take the time to give me feedback! Thank you so much!

By Kasmi Kassim

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The Strength of One Green Leaf**_

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Chapter 16: I Shall Never Leave You

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After Thranduil returned from a brief conversation with an advisor, he found Elrond and Gandalf alone in the quiet feast hall. The remnants of the festivities had been completely cleaned out, leaving the lord and wizard at a small round table amidst the expanse of carpeted floor. Elrond was leaning back in his chair, looking quite at ease, while the wizard was leaning forward on the table with a chuckle. The king tilted his head in inquiry. Gandalf waved his hand.

"Come sit, Thranduil. I was recounting the recent perils your kingdom had gone through."

The king strode toward them readily and seated himself at the table. Elrond said nothing, but with a lingering smile playing upon his lips, lowered his lids and pushed a golden goblet toward the newly-joined companion. Thranduil nodded graciously and lifted his arm, pulling out a dark wine bottle from within the folds of his sleeve. Gandalf' eyes brightened.

"Ah, finally!" he exclaimed. Elrond raised an amused eyebrow.

Smiling, the king proceeded to open the bottle and pour the content into the wizard's goblet. "He has been eying this wine for quite some time," he said to Elrond, tipping up the bottle as the wizard contentedly brought the goblet to his lips. He then raised his eyes and looked at the dark-haired elf. "How does Mirkwood wine suit you, my lord?"

Elrond gave a soft chuckle, watching the dark liquid trickle down as Thranduil served him next. "It is indeed a rarity," he replied, and let his eyes wander to where Thranduil was now pouring into his own goblet. "Stronger than what I expected, but indeed of excellent quality."

"Strong indeed. This elf here is a drinker, if you didn't know it," pitched in the wizard. Thranduil shot him an indignant glance.

"Just because I am more seasoned than certain others-"

"Yes, yes, he calls it 'seasoned.' A fine way to put it, I must say." Gandalf was chuckling humorously. Thranduil snorted as his two companions amused themselves at his expense.

Elrond took a sip of the wine, and was taken aback by the spark it ignited in his senses. It had been long since he last tasted wine such as this. Even then, it was not quite as strong – Oropher was apparently more concerned about the taste buds of 'unseasoned' elves than was his son. He was broken out of his daze when he vaguely heard Thranduil ask Gandalf about their subject of discussion before the king arrived.

"As I was saying," Gandalf was chuckling lazily – Elrond suspected it was due to the wine – as he waved his hand toward the lore master. "It was most definitely the first time that rune was used. Usually the land of the havens keep out the darkness on its own, but the magic had fallen silent when this foolish elf fell." Thranduil shot another indignant glance at the wizard.

Elrond nodded, his smile becoming somewhat more somber. He eyed the elven king, who was looking down upon his goblet.

Gandalf chugged down more wine, and held out his goblet while Thranduil poured him another filling. "It is a rather dangerous task, to summon and control the dormant magic – while it is controlling you," he commented. He nodded his thanks to the king and raised the goblet once more to his lips. "Lucky that Thranduil succeeded."

Elrond glanced at Thranduil with slight unease. Though Gandalf spoke of it with mirth, the elven lord suspected that this may be a rather tender subject for the king. When the unarmed and desperate queen had called upon the magic five years ago, it had come to her – stretching out of its territory, breaking into the lands seized by the darkness. It had come all right – but it had also cost her life. It was a miracle that Thranduil not only survived the magic but escaped unscathed as well. Perhaps it was largely owing to the fact that the magic reacted against the intrusion of foul forces upon its grounds, rather than being summoned to stretch out, uncontrolled, to unprotected lands. Perhaps it was because Thranduil was physically stronger than the queen had been. Whatever the reason, the magic of the elven realm had saved the prince's life in exchange for the queen's. And it was sure to be a wound to the king's heart.

The dark-haired lord watched with close scrutiny as Thranduil raised his goblet to his lips. Surprisingly, the king seemed at ease; eyes sparkling with the usual vigor, he held a slight smile as he held out the bottle to pour more wine for Elrond.

"Aye," said the king, reaching across the table to refill the goblet, "I must say it was quite fortunate – very risky, but fortunate – that all the orcs were within the haven grounds. They were all swept away, every one." He glanced up at Elrond, flashing a rogue smile. Elrond unconsciously held his breath when the sparkling eyes looked into his. Then they turned away, toward the wizard. "And fortunate indeed that Lord Elrond appeared there and then, and destroyed the remainder of the orcs. Our warriors took a heavy blow, but Dol Guldur did also. I do believe they will need sufficient time to recover their numbers, and by then, we will be ready." He poured another goblet-full of wine to the wizard. "And we will now be able to make the preemptive attacks."

Gandalf, lounging back in his chair, chuckled. "Next time you get attacked by orcs," he said merrily, holding up his goblet, "Be sure to lure them all into your havens! Then you can blast them all away again." The king glowered and the wizard burst into laughter. Elrond smirked.

All was well. Relief washed up to the listless sands of his mind, the cool waves lapping gently upon the prickling heat. Thranduil sat before Elrond, eyes twinkling with the same brightness he had held when they first met. The account of how he had battled the sea of orcs was enough to conjure the nightmares he had fought against; and now, having summoned and controlled the force that had taken his wife away, the king once again held the aura of bright fire, cool and shimmering with life. The lore master smiled. Perhaps Gandalf was right. The king had defeated his demons.

Gandalf turned toward Elrond, a mischievous glint in his eyes. The elven lord instinctively drew back, a familiar apprehension setting in his stomach.

"That was a rather striking alignment of circumstances, my friend," Gandalf pointed out, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. Elrond swallowed, and glanced at Thranduil. The king was watching him curiously. Elrond stared up at the ceiling. They had rather exquisite decorations. On second thought, they were marvelously exquisite. It would do well to remember those elegant patterns and describe them to his architects. Perhaps he would bring some of them here, next time he chanced to visit. Perhaps...

"Well?" The wizard's voice was full of mirth. "Did you foresee this attack?"

With a defeated sigh, Elrond raised his goblet and allowed the sweet taste to overwhelm his senses once again. He then lifted his eyelids, scanning the relaxed gaze of the wizard and the intent stare of the king, before slowly opening his mouth to speak.

"Aye, I saw a vision – blurry it was, covered with mist – and saw the orcs besieging the castle." Lowering the goblet, he swirled the wine gracefully with slow movements of his fingers. Eyes riveted upon the churning liquid, he slowly continued. "I was hesitant...no, truth be told, I may have been afraid, through the years. Thranduil had been willing to come to my realm, but I was unable to cross the gulf between us after the tragedy struck."

Silence. Elrond closed his eyes. There was nothing more to hide. The old feuds were laid to rest, and the king had bared himself before him – all was to be reconciled again. Late was the hour, he knew – but fears and pride had to be put aside. It was already five years too late.

"It was...not forgotten, Thranduil. It was...consciously...delayed." He looked up, and met Thranduil's eyes. He looked down at his wine again, and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. "Perhaps I had been afraid of facing Thranduil's sorrow, in fear that it would reawaken my own grief." His voice was quiet.

Gandalf's grays eyes turned sympathetic as he listened. It was unusual to hear such words from the lord of Rivendell. Elrond rarely talked of his lost wife, or his sorrows. And certainly not his fears. The wizard smiled with slight amusement as he observed the elven lord searching for words. Could it be that similar losses had forged a common ground between these two, and Valar forbid, even something akin to friendship?

"But..."

Elrond looked up again, at last with determined light in his bold gaze, as he met Thranduil's eyes. The king stared back with equal intensity. The quiet hall was enveloped in warmth. No more ghosts of the past. No more fear, no more nightmares. Elrond could hear the hush of the hall as he breathed out his resolve. "No more. It is long past time."

The hall fell into quietude. The king regarded the dark-haired elf silently, head resting comfortably upon the palm of a propped up elbow. His entire upper body leaned heavily on the table, sprawled out carelessly; he appeared to be relaxed at the edge of drunkenness. But the lore master knew that this was far from truth. Bright blue eyes steadily watched him, a pool of fleeting emotions that were impossible to read. Elrond stared back. At last, Thranduil released a small smile; lowering his eyelids, he brought his goblet to his lips. The dark-haired elf smiled to himself and relaxed.

It was not much later that Gandalf stood to announce that he would retire for the night. His steps were heavy and slightly tipsy, allowing sweet intoxication to guide the way. The two elven lords watched him leave with amusement, and turned toward their wine again. The wizard's unsteady footsteps died in an echo, followed by quick elven footsteps hurrying to guide him to his chamber, and a tranquil silence settled in the hall.

Thranduil touched his goblet, tracing its golden outline with his fingers. Elrond noted with wonder that the strength of the wine, whose pleasant sensations were beginning to take an effect on him, did not seem to faze the king at all. Well seasoned, indeed.

"Forgive my belatedness," said Thranduil in a low voice, looking down at his wine thoughtfully. Then he raised his gaze, looking at Elrond with serene eyes. "How fares Imladris? And your children?"

Elrond smiled involuntarily at the mention of his children. The love and pride he held for them seeped out through mere reminiscences, despite the great distance that separated them. He could see their bright eyes, hear their merry laughter. He looked down at his wine, allowing the smile to spread unchecked. There was no more dignity to be upheld between the two now.

"Elladan and Elrohir joined the border patrols recently," he said, taking on a distant look as he smiled broader. Recalling fond memories, Thranduil supposed. He watched as a peaceful stirring roused his heart, engulfing him in warmth. Something akin to sunshine. It was frighteningly overwhelming, and yet vaguely familiar. Perhaps this was something he had left behind that day, five years ago. The pieces were coming back in place. Perhaps happiness could return.

Elrond turned to smile at Thranduil. "You must have your child meet my daughter. Arwen is about the same age as he – I wager they will grow to be like siblings."

The king answered with a smile, a crystal blue twinkle in his eyes. Elrond let out a soft chuckle.

"Arwen does not remember her mother at all – dear child – but I do believe it did spare her much grief." He sipped slowly from his goblet. "You have a very strong soul in your son, Thranduil. You must be very proud."

The king broke into a soft, breathy laugh, turning his eyes away to gaze down at his wine. "Aye," he answered distractedly, a smile lingering on his face. "I do wish I could erase the memories from his sweet and innocent mind, but I know he will defeat his grief."

Elrond nodded, and suddenly raised his head to stare at the great doors of the hall. The king also snapped to attention and focused on the doorway.

A door opened ever so slightly, and a pair of large round eyes peeped in through the crack. The two elven lords broke into smiles.

Elrond nodded a greeting toward the elfling, who was glancing at him and shyly edging into the room. Tiny bare feet could be seen scuffling under the flowing fabric of the long bed wear. Locks of gold tumbled freely down his shoulders. He was tentatively glancing at both elven lords seated upon the table, and then at the wine, as he inched forward.

Smiling, Thranduil opened up his arms. The elfling scuttled across the scarlet floor and scrambled up onto his father's lap, now glancing at Elrond and the wine with unmasked curiosity. Elrond chuckled.

"Would you like a sip, little one?"

"Elrond!"

The horrified reproach of the king jolted the elfling and sent the elven lord into a peal of laughter. Thranduil tightened his hold on the elfling, and scowled at Elrond. The dark-haired elf smirked.

"I heard you wanted your child to be seasoned, Thranduil?"

Thranduil snorted. "I see you have been speaking to Gandalf." He looked down at his elfling, who was staring up with wide, curious eyes. "I keep a separate book of speech between you two for a reason. He is too young to be anywhere near wine." He tapped the elfling's nose and sent the child into a giggle.

Elrond smirked broader. Ah, fathers.

Legolas clung onto his father's arm and tugged at the long sleeve. "Ada," he whispered, "you promised."

Thranduil withdrew his scowl from Elrond and quickly faced his elfling. "Ah, yes, of course. I did not forget."

Before Thranduil could turn an apologetic look toward his direction, Elrond rose gracefully from his seat. "I shall retire for the night. My humble thanks for sharing with me such a wondrous feast." He bowed slightly, and smiled when he saw the elfing bob his head in his direction.

Gathering the child into his arms, Thranduil gratefully returned the gesture of respect. "May your night be restful," said the king, his expression deepening into a placid smile.

Then the two parted ways, yielding to the peaceful silence of the night.

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Legolas blinked drowsily as the king placed him on the bed. Thranduil sat down beside the elfling and began to smoothen out the blankets spread over the small body.

"Are you not tired, little Greenleaf?" asked the king gently, smiling as his child yawned. Legolas shook his head.

"You said you'd tell me more about cowardice."

Thranduil reached out and stroked his elfling's forehead thoughtfully. Shifting to make himself more comfortable, he looked out into the night. The frogs were croaking. He could see shadows of trees tapping gently against the window.

"Cowardice, Legolas," he said quietly, "is when you allow yourself to be defeated by fear."

The elfling looked up with a frown. "But you said there is no shame in fear."

"That is true." The king smiled down upon his son. "The only shame is to give in to it, to turn from those who need you, and desert them in the hour of need." He lifted his gaze, a faraway look settling into his eyes. "There was a time when all brethren of Arda stood side by side, when great respect and honor bound the children of the land...but much of the valor and comradeship is now lost, only preserved in songs."

Quiet trickling of silver waters could be heard in the distance as silence settled into the darkness. The elfling tipped his head inquisitively, pouting his lips and creasing his face into a frown. Thranduil bit back a chuckle and continued to stroke his hair. Somewhere in the night, bell crickets were beginning to tune their breathy orchestra.

At length, the elfling looked up again. "But why do you always fight in the forefront, Ada? There are none but our people here." He was trying to solve a great puzzle, something his mind could not quite figure out. He looked utterly confused.

"Because, Legolas," answered Thranduil as he fingered his child's hair, "I am king."

The elfling looked up in surprise. He blinked. "Is that why you must fight?"

Thranduil nodded. "A king must fight at the very front to protect his people – he must play his part, in war as well as peace." He paused for a moment. "To lead the people into war and then order others to ride to the front – that is a cowardly and shameful act, a spreading practice among men and dwarves."

The king was taken by surprise when his elfling suddenly sat upright. Legolas stared up at him, eyes round with terror. "Then I don't want you to be king." The young voice was alarmed.

At this, the king let out a soft laugh. He looked down at the unhappy face of his elfling, and took the round cheeks in between his hands. "And why not, little Greenleaf?"

Legolas pushed the hands away in annoyance. "What if you get hurt?" The clear blue eyes became glazed with tears. "What if they take you away, like Nana?" His lips trembled as large eyes drooped mournfully. "I don't want you to go away, too."

Thranduil quickly bent down to embrace his shaking child. "Hush, little one, hush. I am not going anywhere." Legs crossed and arms gently wrapped around the elfling, he idly rocked the small body side to side. A helpless smile hovered over the king's fair face as the child's body trembled, a soft, muffled sob seeping out from the folds of his robe. Grief had sown terror in his young mind. Thranduil soothingly stroked the warm head as the child's sobs died down against his chest.

When the elfling was once again quiet, Thranduil pulled back slightly to examine his son's face and wipe the tears away. He smiled reassuringly at the teary-eyed child. "That is why a king must be the mightiest warrior among his people, Legolas, so that he will not fall."

The elfling looked up in surprise. He blinked, the wet eyelashes setting a glaze to shining eyes. "Are you the mightiest warrior in Mirkwood, Ada?" He sniffled absentmindedly. Such a concept was hardly fathomable for his young mind.

Chuckling, the king tousled the child's hair. "Believe it."

Legolas let out a sigh of relief. Thranduil bit back a smile and patted his cheek. "Time for you to sleep, my little leafling." He shifted his position, leaning forward to tuck in the wayward edges of the blankets atop the child. When he raised his body, he nearly fell forward, due to a certain small fist that curled around the folds of his robes. Round eyes stared up at him anxiously.

With a soft laugh, the king reached down to pat the child's tense wrist. "Rest, Legolas. I will not go anywhere until you sleep."

A breath of relief escaped the elfling's lips. Legolas released the robe, and grinned mischievously. His eyes sparkled with delight. "Then I shall stay awake all night."

Thranduil chuckled. "I doubt that, little one. Now close your eyes, and I will sing to you."

Legolas' eyes widened. "You'll sing me to sleep?" His voice was excited. "Like Nana used to?"

Gentle fingers caressed a small chin. "Yes...just like Nana." The king smiled.

Pulling the blankets closer about himself, Legolas squirmed back against his bedding, shutting his eyes tight. Smiling to himself, Thranduil looked out the window. His eyes absorbed the velvet sky, the tranquil darkness caressing the depths of the orbs. His voice slowly began to release the forgotten melody of old.

It was an ancient song. A soothing melody, words of comfort and love whispered in Quenya, the language of the peaceful, golden days. The gentle melody that his beloved would whisper to him in the darkened woods – the sweet, golden music that she would sing to her sleeping babe. The soft tenor rose up to the darkened sky, dancing among the twinkling stars.

When Thranduil had finished, he looked down in mild surprise to find his elfling snuggled close to his side. Shuffling among the fluffy blankets, the elfling wrapped his plump arms tightly around his father's waist, eyes shut and head buried on his father's lap.

"Don't ever leave me, Ada." The murmur was soft, muffled. "I promise I'll be a good elfling."

Thranduil's eyes hazed. He reached out to tenderly finger the strands of hair scattered on his lap.  
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When the war is over, father, we shall return home together.  
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He closed his eyes. Oropher never did give him an answer. He simply smiled at his son's youthful confidence, and advised him not to be ruled by emotion in the battlefield. He had clasped his shoulder and gazed long into his eyes – and never made a promise to return to him alive.

"Yes, Legolas, I know you will." He opened his eyes and looked down at his elfling, a phantom of a smile crossing his face. Delicate fingers stroked the warm head, and long tresses of gold slowly bent forward to spill onto the child's soft hair. Shadowed in the sanctuary of golden screen, the king closed his eyes – and opened them again slowly, hazy pools of soft blue beginning to crystallize under lowered lashes. His lips parted from the elfling's golden head and breathed a gentle whisper. "Fear not, little Greenleaf. I shall never leave you."

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To be Continued


	17. The Strength of One Green Leaf

_Disclaimer: You know the drill._

_Rating: PG-13._

_By Kasmi Kassim_

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_**The Strength of One Green Leaf**_

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_**Chapter 17: The Strength of One Green Leaf **_

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_The shy sunlight streamed into the room, touching its inhabitants with feathery caresses of a newborn chick of soft golden hue. Engulfed in the gentle bliss of early morning was a tall, fair-haired elf, bent over a great white bed. One hand tenderly locked with a weak hand resting atop the white blankets, the other fingering a small bundle resting at the side of the pale arm – his eyes sparkled as radiant hair cascaded carelessly down his shoulders, tickling the soft flesh squirming below him._

_"He is beautiful," whispered the elf, touching the tender skin of the newborn with reverent awe. Lightly, slowly – his fingers explored the contours of the child, the pouting lips, the curled fists._

_Weakly squeezing the strong fingers intertwined with her own, the new mother smiled. She feebly turned her head, shifting the deep golden tresses that tumbled down the pillow about her._

_"I wanted him to look more like you," she whispered softly._

_With a smile, the king turned toward the exhausted queen and bent closer to her face. Pale gold met deep gold, and light blue danced with dark blue. The queen closed her eyes as her husband's lips brushed against her own, a tender and feathery caress. Her dark lashes slowly lifted as she felt a breathy whisper upon her eyelids. "No, my love, he looks just like you – and that's what makes him all the more beautiful."_

_With a soft laugh, the queen reached up with her weary hand and traced the smiling lips of her beloved. Despite the weariness resting upon her hollow cheeks, the stars in her midnight eyes twinkled bright with joy. "Have you thought of a name, Thranduil?"_

_The young king tilted his head and eyed the queen humorously. "Have you?"_

_Withdrawing her hand, the queen scowled. Her face returned to the youthful face of a naïve, carefree maiden. "I have been laboring to give birth all this time, and you didn't even think of a name?"_

_With an expression of complete innocence, the king held up his hands. "But you were screaming and cursing me the whole night – I was too distraught by your pain to think."_

_The queen eyed him with a pout, apparently unconvinced, though significantly softened. Thranduil laughed and bent down to kiss her lips once more. "Besides," he whispered as their lips parted, "it would be unfair for me to name the child – you experienced all the pain."_

_With a contented smile, the queen reached out for the small bundle at her side. "Very well, then. I shall name him."_

_Thranduil quickly reached around her back as she began to pull herself up, and arranged layers of pillows behind her as she leaned against the backboard of the bed. He then scooped up the squirming infant and placed him gently in his wife's arms. She looked down with a warm smile, a brilliant sparkle in her eyes. Her tired mouth moved softly in a whisper._

_"The first green shoots of life are blooming." She lifted her weary eyes and looked out the window. Thranduil tilted his head in askance. When she nodded toward him, he turned around and opened the glass, allowing the fresh morning breeze of early spring to enter the room. The queen turned back to her child and fingered his tender baby hair – fair threads of silky gold, darker than his father's and lighter than his mother's. "You breathe your first with the glorious rising of the sun."_

_Eyes transfixed upon her elfling, she reached out with one hand and picked up a brooch lying atop her dark wooden drawers. It was an elegant carving of a green leaf, dark and pure, enchanted with the breath of life under the sun of summer – entwined with an eloquent stream of mithril. She began to clasp the brooch onto the blanket securing her child._

_With a wondering expression, her husband approached her, and studied the complex weaving of mithril being worked by her pale hand. "The leaf of Lorien," he stated softly. He then looked up into her eyes with a questioning gaze. "Was this not the present of The Lady when you left?"_

_Eyes locked on the brooch, the queen nodded. A faint smile lingered upon her lips as determined fingers fastened the brooch securely onto the center of the blanket covering her babe. "Our child is Legolas." She fingered the small nose, and smiled when the babe squirmed._

_She raised her eyes and met the gaze of her beloved. "The attacks come relentlessly, and our hearts grow weary – our beautiful forest is being consumed by evil, the trees poisoned to deformity and death." She lowered her lids. The sunlight rested gently atop her brows, the delicate golden strands of light entwining with the long blades of eyelashes._

_"But as long as there is a single green leaf remaining in our realm, our people shall not despair." She closed her eyes, the long delicate fingers circling and hovering above the babe's small body. Her whisper, soft and voiceless, dissolved into the air with a self-reflective echo. She smiled. Looking up suddenly into her husband's eyes, she reached out with her right hand, and clasped her husband's ready fingers with weary strength. "Until the fading of the last green leaf, our hope shall live."_

_Silent, Thranduil looked down upon his child. A tender smile broke out from his lips as he took the child gently into his arms. "Legolas," he whispered, rising and slowly walking toward the window. He stood by the glass, narrowing his eyes in the soft morning sunlight as the gentle spring breeze brushed his hair. He bent to plant a kiss atop the infant's forehead. "Legolas."_

_He slowly raised his eyes toward the sunrise, the pale blue eyes dancing with the dazzling shimmer of the golden rays. The queen smiled. Holding the newborn in his arms, bathed in the enchanted light of gold, the young father glowed with the luminescence of a marble sculpture, a pastel painting. She closed her eyes and leaned back, breathing deeply and willing the image to imprint itself in her memory. The soft tenor gently caressed her with the kiss of the spring breeze._

_"Welcome to our world, Legolas. My dearest little jewel."_

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To Elrond's surprise, the king was in his chamber when the lord of Rivendell found him. Seated behind a large desk in the study adjacent to the bedroom, he was tenaciously pressing his temple with his fingers. The hollow cheeks looked pale and tired.

Elrond stepped inside when the king bid him to enter, and upon seeing the pallor of his face, slightly creased his eyebrow. "Perhaps I should have waited to schedule an attendance with the king," he said softly.

With brusque wave of a hand, Thranduil got to his feet and moved around his desk to face the elven lord. "Such formalities," he said dismissively with a frown, and motioned for him to sit. He seated himself on a settee facing the dark-haired elf, the ever-present energy and grace emanating from beneath the weary appearance.

Elrond lowered himself onto the sofa facing the king. Thranduil relaxed his body with a great sigh, and draped his arm over the armrest, gazing out the large glass window. And remained thus while Elrond searched for words.

"Thranduil." Elrond let out a quiet breath. It had been long indeed since they had talked thus. As a matter of fact, they had not talked like this – alone, and peaceably – for many ages. Time really was a strange thing. It dulled pain, it made one forget biting insults, it tempered anger. And it had rekindled an old friendship in the hearts of two stubborn elves estranged by long years of pride and fear.

The king turned his head and watched Elrond, eyes hollow with luminescent light. Elrond knew that gaze. He smiled faintly and returned the gaze, and the two lords stared at each other in silence. Until Elrond broke into a soft laughter.

Thranduil knew well that Elrond came here with nothing particular in his mind. And Elrond knew that Thranduil did not expect any coherence out of him. The two had always been thus; though the war never permitted much time to be spent in companionship, they were always readily able to read each other's thoughts. It really was quite strange that they had allowed the wounds of war to drive them apart, when they had been so close to becoming friends. The king smiled in amusement as Elrond leaned back comfortably in his seat.

"It has indeed been long."

The king nodded. He turned his head, once again resting his gaze outside of the window. "Too long." He narrowed his eyes, a faraway look settling in. "But never too late."

The lore master nodded, following his gaze outside the window and into the garden. On a stone bench sat an elfling, lips moving in a soft song as he watched a bee crawl into a flower. He turned abruptly, and jumped to his feet. From behind the bushes appeared the gray-clad wizard, chuckling as he bent down to embrace the child who threw himself into outstretched arms.

Eyes rooted upon his elfling, the king smiled. It was a haunting smile, singing a melody lost. His voice was quiet. "My father never did give me an answer when I asked him to make a promise."

Elrond shifted his gaze onto Thranduil. The young king had never spoken of his father in his presence. Along with Oropher's memory came the memory of the war, and with the war came the bitter scar of the two young lords of powerful elven realms. The subject had been left untouched, carefully avoided – left to gather dust in the aging book of memory.

With a soft chuckle, the king turned his head and smiled at Elrond. "My little one asked me to promise the same thing."

Not surprising, coming from such a young elfling. But alas, times were growing dark. Elrond raised an eyebrow. "Did you promise him?"

Chuckling again, Thranduil raised his hand and wearily ran it over his face. "Aye, I did." His eyes returned to the garden, where the wizard and child were seated next to each other on the stone bench. "And I intend to keep my word."

"I know you will."

The king turned his head, slightly surprised at the words spoken by his companion. Elrond's eyes were calm, holding his gaze with surety. Thranduil watched him for a moment, and then rose to his feet and slowly approached the window, eyes rooted on the stone bench where the elfling was giggling by an amused wizard.

"The hour grows dark, and the shadows are ever increasing. We continue to fight the evil, but sometimes I wonder if we are to ever see the light of peace again." The king's silhouette remained still as shadow as he breathed the words.

Elrond watched him from where he was, his eyes taking in the forlorn back, the steady shoulders. Pale fingers slowly rose to gently touch the glass, as the dim light in the eyes softened upon the figure of his elfling.

"Much has been sacrificed, and I fear that much more will need to be still." The fingers slowly curled against the glass. A merry laughter broke through the transparent wall.

"You are strong, Thranduil." Elrond's voice was low, reverberating in the room with a gentle strength. "In the dark hours, remember your allies. Your friends."

Halting midway through trailing a pattern on the glass with his fingers, the king slowly turned toward the elven lord. Silence encompassed the indiscernible light in the steadfast blue eyes.

Elrond's gaze remained on Thranduil's as the king broke into a light smile. He turned fully toward the dark-haired elf. "You have my gratitude," he said softly, "for coming to my realm."

Elrond shook his head. "I only finished what you were prevented from continuing."

A soft laughter broke from the king. This time, however, it was genuine and light. "It is strange, is it not?" he mused, eyes trailing back to where his elfling was jumping off the bench to flee from an indignant-looking wizard. "To remember what has come to pass, and to feel young and foolish – wanting to erase all back to nothingness."

The dark-haired lord smiled. He rested his chin upon clasped hands. "We were young fools, the both of us." He closed his eyes and chuckled.

"Aye." The distant look returned to the eyes of the king as he watched a stomping wizard storming after a wide-eyed elfling in flight. "Aye, we were."

Turning toward the window, Elrond smiled mirthfully at the sight of a triumphant Istar swooping up the scrambling elfling and preparing retribution. The afternoon sun shifted and cast a long shadow of the king across the room, motionless and silent. The golden rays danced in soft, inextricable patterns about the room, caressing the solitary elf as he watched his elfling shriek with laughter upon the merciless tickling of the wizard.

Elrond rose gracefully and joined the fair-haired elf at the window. Thranduil wordlessly moved to the side, but Elrond's hand upon his shoulder stopped him. The young king's eyes glittered once again with alertness, but the icy blue melted into something softer, a hazy swirl of iridescent light. Together they watched as the elfling turned and tackled the old wizard onto the ground before being helplessly assaulted by tickling once again. Elrond smiled.

"Your child will shine brighter than any beacon in the hearts of your people, my friend."

A smile formed readily at the king's lips. His eyes were fixed upon the laughing elfling.

"Aye."

,

,

The morning sun was rising steadily above the hushed peace of the woodland realm. Flowers, laden with heavy dew, were beginning to shyly peek out of their covers, as damp grass shifted under quiet footsteps. Gandalf's gray robe tapped soundlessly against his staff as he strolled beside the king. He turned his head to acknowledge his companion's voice, which drifted softly among the silver wetness of morning.

"Thank you, Mithrandir – for everything."

Birds were singing full-voice nearby. Gandalf raised his head to look among the trees.

"I had been weak – and afraid. But I now bid my grief farewell." The king was bent over a delicate flower of a lavender hue. Gandalf could not see his eyes, for long tresses of gold hung over his shoulders and spilled onto the moist green leaves below the petals. But he did not need to.

"Many leaves will fall," uttered the wizard absentmindedly. "But the life of Greenwood shall not wane when the darkest storm will blow."

Chuckling softly, Thranduil straightened his back and looked up at the pale blue sky. His deep green robe wavered in the gentle breeze. "Cryptic words again, my friend."

"Ah." Gandalf smiled, and reached out to touch a blue flower. "I know you are no fool."

With a long sigh, Thranduil brought his head down again, and adjusted them to the visage down beneath the sky. "And despite your wise words, how I wish I could keep him from all sorrow."

"Yet you know you cannot." The wizard's smile was fleeting. "Someday the bird will rise above its nest, with much strength to weather the pains of the world."

The father did not answer. He raised his head to watch a bird fly by. It flew straight to its nest atop a tall tree, where feeble squeaks could be heard. Soon, the bird was out of the green canopy once again, flying determinedly toward the forest in search of more food for its young. The wizard and king stood in companionable silence, side by side, watching the bird fly away.

It was Thranduil who broke the silence.

"I have asked Elrond to take Legolas with him."

Surprised, Gandalf turned and stared at the king. Thranduil's eyes were closed as strands of flaxen hair brushed his forehead.

"I wish him to further explore the path of healing, before he decides his path."

Gandalf creased his brow. "Why such haste, my friend? Surely delaying his ceremony was enough to keep him in a middle path for a time?"

With a sad smile, the king opened his eyes. Slowly lowering his gaze, he began to move past Gandalf, idly approaching another batch of flowers.

"I told him that I must fight at the forefront because I am king – I told him about cowardice and shame, about being strong of heart."

Bending down, he gently caressed a white morning glory. The trumpet-like petal, tightly curled into a twisted cocoon, was beginning to slowly unfold its pure white beauty, breathing in sync with the slowly rising sun.

"And alas, I should have foreseen it. My little one comes to me the next day, with that determined look, and gazes up at me with wide eyes-" he turned, smiling at the wizard. "Says he, 'Give me my warrior plaits, Ada. I shall be the strongest of Mirkwood, just like you, and fight with you to protect everyone.'" He chuckled.

Tapping the soft earth with his staff, the wizard let out a smile. He shook his head. "Fool of a Leaf."

Thranduil turned toward the garden path again and resumed his leisurely gait. "Elrond has already agreed. I also do not wish him to see the commotion of restoration in the palace, and be reminded of what he has been through-" his voice faltered slightly. Gandalf studied this inconspicuous change with a scrutinizing eye.

"Might I inquire the biggest reason, o mighty king?"

With a sigh, the king cast him an annoyed glance. The wizard stared back with an innocent expression. Thranduil smiled faintly and lowered his gaze thoughtfully.

"I wish to lose not a day more to this ghost of the past."

The king deliberately resumed his gait, strong and full of resolve, as he moved on ahead of the wizard. He then stopped, and held out his arm. Gandalf watched in silence.

"Legolas is a wise little elfling, but I wish him to remain an elfling."

He turned back toward Gandalf. In his hand rested a small bird, peering at the wizard curiously.

Thranduil dropped his gaze and gently stroked the bird's small head. "I cannot give him back the time lost – but I can capture it from slipping through his fingers, and give him the time he has now." He raised his eyes, and smiled sadly at the wizard.

Gandalf stepped closer to the king. The bird flew away, frightened at the approaching gray figure.

"Ease your fears, my friend. Legolas may choose the path of a warrior, but whatever his destiny may be, he will remain a healer at heart."

The king bowed his head, looking as young and tender as he had in his adolescent years. Gandalf tapped his shoulder, a hint of a smile spreading in his old gray eyes. The two resumed their stroll, slowly and contemplatively, listening to the awakening of life surrounding them.

Thranduil let out a soft breath, and his eyes drifted toward a large tree. He slowly approached it, his unfathomable gaze transfixed upon the dark bark. The green leaves were broad and darkest of green, the soft sunlight touching it barely enough to breathe a bright golden fire of life through its darkness. The king reached out his hand and rested it tentatively against the dark trunk. The white fingers seemed so very fragile against the enormous sturdiness of the tree.

"Gandalf." The voice was soft, barely audible over the singing of the birds. The wizard watched the uncertain shoulders from where he stood. The king's voice was a hesitant whisper. "Do you think she would be disappointed with me?"

Gandalf sputtered indignantly. "Disappointed! No, Thranduil." He strode resolutely toward the elf, and clasped his shoulder. The elf did not lift his gaze.

The wizard gently turned the still body around, and probed into his forlorn eyes. The king gazed back, a childlike glimmer in his soft blue orbs. Searching the helpless pools of light, the wizard smiled faintly. "She would be proud that you are her son's father."

Thranduil lowered his gaze. A delicate breeze caressed him in a loving touch.

Smiling, the wizard slowly led him away from the tree and back toward the castle. "They must be waiting," he urged. The king nodded, but his steps were reluctant.

"I do wish you would stay longer." The voice was soft. Gandalf squinted his eyes as a company of elven warriors and his horse came into view.

"Well-" Gandalf opened his mouth to speak when he was interrupted by a piercing cry from the far side of the garden.

"Gandaaaaaaalf!"

Startled, the wizard whirled around. Thranduil smiled as his elfling bounded across the garden in a panicked rush and threw himself into the wizard's arms.

"Gandaaaaalf," he wailed, clutching the wizard's robe, "don't go, don't leave so soon!"

With a helpless chuckle, the wizard scooped up the child and held him close as he walked toward his awaiting train. "Legolas, I wish I could stay longer but-"

"Then stay longer!" The elfling was attached to the wizard's chest as if locked to a magnet. "I promise I won't make fun of you anymore!"

Thranduil burst into laughter. Gandalf shot him a helpless glance, but the king shrugged and offered no assistance. The wizard grunted and strode toward his horse, and hopped resolutely onto the grunting animal. The elfling remained stubbornly latched onto his robe.

Sighing, Gandalf turned to look down at the large, drooping eyes. "Now, little elf, you know that a wizard is a very busy person-"

"But must you go so soon?"

The elfling was pouting as he looked up with glazed eyes. He looked as if he would burst into tears. Bewildered and near panic, the wizard looked toward the king's direction once again. This time, the smiling king seemed to take pity. He approached the wizard's horse and gently pried the child off of Gandalf's robe. The wizard seemed very close to falling off his horse at this rate.

Gathering the folds of his robe about him, Gandalf looked around. The court was all there, watching in respectful silence, as a party of border patrols – many of them were quite thoroughly healed by this time – waited atop their mounts, prepared to guide the wizard to the borders of the forest. Elrond stood at the head of his Rivendell party, wearing a smile that looked strangely akin to a smirk. Gandalf grunted indignantly and managed to issue forth a somber tone.

"A wizard is never late, nor early. He comes and goes precisely when he means to-" he stopped short when he saw Legolas looking up at him with bulging eyes. He creased his brows. "What?"

"So you intentionally waited while the orcs were hurting me?" The utter betrayal and shock imprinted on the innocent face sent the two elven lords into a howl of laughter. Additional giggling and snickering could be heard here and there among the court advisors and patrols.

The wizard scowled, evidently at a loss for words.

"You lose, my friend," smirked the king, barely containing his laughter as he lifted the elfling up onto his shoulder. Gandalf humphed and tapped the ground with his staff.

"I will come again," he said to the elfling, who was now eye-level with him. Legolas reached out his small arms, and Gandalf embraced him warmly. "Now you stay out of trouble, little elf," he muttered into his hair. Legolas nodded with a sniffle.

The morning sun, having gained strength through its upward course in the sky, shone upon them brightly as the wizard proceeded to bid farewell to the elven company. Having exchanged wordless – but with meaningful gazes – bows with the lord of Rivendell as well, he at last turned to Thranduil.

The wizard silently clasped the elven king's shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. The king gazed back at the wizard, a deep shimmer in his young blue eyes, as he lightly tilted his head. A serene smile surfaced slowly onto the tranquil face. His face shone bright and fair, a mirror of the beauty borne of peaceful victory and affection that the wizard would later see bloom in the prince after a great war. He stepped back and bowed, deeply and slowly. The wizard touched his heart with a bow in farewell.

Gandalf sat upright atop his horse, taking the reins into his hands. He turned to look at the sad stare of large blue eyes. With a sympathetic drawl, the wizard reached out and patted the elfling's round cheek with his finger. "Remember, little one," he whispered, tapping the small chest. "She is right here." He smiled as the elfling nodded solemnly. He turned his head toward Thranduil as his horse shifted under him. "Have heart, be proud-" he glanced at the elfling – "There may come a day when the world calls upon the strength of this one elf."

Thranduil nodded. He stepped back as the horse bucked, and broke into a gallop. The band of warriors who had been waiting dashed off into the forest. The multitude of elves at the gate burst into cries of farewell.

"Farewell, Gandalf!" cried the king, the clear tenor vibrating among the trees. "May the Valar look down kindly upon your path!"

"Good bye, Gandalf!" The elfling raised his voice as well. "Come back soon!" His voice was quickly buried among the cries of other elves.

The figures disappeared among the trees, and the galloping of the hooves gradually faded away. The elves, standing still and looking out into the forest, slowly began to disperse. With a wistful smile, the king turned away from the path and faced the elven lord standing behind him. "Think you he spoke true?" he asked in a low voice, smiling at his chirping child.

Elrond smiled broader, and looked up at the sky. Moving slowly about the trees, the elves were beginning to sing a farewell for the wizard.

"I need no gift of foresight to tell you what he said." He narrowed his eyes at the golden sun. "Someday, the strength of one green leaf may change the world."

The music of the elves rose above the trees, spreading its wings to soar into the vast sky.

A tinkling golden bell of a laughter echoed in the embrace of azure blue.

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The End

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_**...After Epilogue, that is...**_


	18. Epilogue

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine- except for a few elves here and there. If you didn't see them in the books, they probably belong to me.

Rating: PG-13.

Author's Note: Thank you all for reading my story, and I humbly thank the kind reviewers. This is the last part to this story, but reviews are still revered and adored. ;)

I hope you enjoy!

By Kasmi Kassim

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_**The Strength of One Green Leaf **_

_**Epilogue **_

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The smell of blood pervaded the crimson forest with a sickening stench. Broken splinters of wood laced the forest floor, laying out a thickly drenched pyre for the numerous corpses that littered the darkened soil. The stark horizon loomed over broken trees, naked and bleeding. Not a single living creature stirred.

Treading among the ravages of battle was a solitary elf, a bloodied sword in one hand and a great black bow in another. His eyes were downcast, fleetingly scanning the site of destruction. Clad in a ragged armor, he was bathed in crimson blood, his flaxen hair tinged with soiled black. His broad shoulders were weary, and his breath spread warm against the moisture of reddened air. Yet his steps were firm as he picked his way through the remnants of war, his stature stately and reverberant with a relentless spark of life.

He stopped among the jagged trees, silent and still. Listening. In a flash, his eyes shot down to his feet, only a fraction of a moment before a black hand shot out from underneath the piles of splintered wood and red-black bodies on the ground. It grabbed his ankle with surprising strength. The elf watched in silence. A bloodshot eye glittered from among the ruins.

"...die..." croaked the black creature, and hissed in pain. His nails dug into the elf's leg painfully, clutching with tenacious hate that smoldered in the dimming eyes. The elf watched, motionless, as a fresh tinge of red began to spread against his armor. His gaze locked with the screaming eyes of the deformed creature. The elf slowly raised his bloodied sword, dark and thickened with gore, foreboding against the reddened sky.

"Be at peace, my brother." The voice was low, weary – it glided against the mournful air with steely strength, the determination of one who has seen much and has not yet been defeated by what he has seen. "With the blood-red sun as my witness, I shall never again stain my sword after this day."

The blade came down slowly, a silent black silhouette against the blood-stained heavens. The wretched creature fell into a still silence.

After what seemed like an eternity, the elf slowly raised his body from the sword. He wearily pulled out the blade, his head downcast, as darkened hair hung heavily against his tattered armor. Sheathing the sword, he lifted his eyes toward the crimson sky. The last of the sunlight was fading, and red was devouring the last traces of gold. Night would cloak this bloodshed soon.

_Dear Ada._

The elf turned when he heard footsteps hurrying toward his direction. He watched as a dark-haired elf approached him, also clad in a ravaged armor and holding a bloody sword in his hand. On his back rested a battered brown bow.

"The last of them remain at the edge of the forest," reported the young elf, steadying his faltering steps. "You must return to the castle, my lord. We can march at dawn." Anxiety lined his voice as he looked into the eyes of the blond elf.  
_  
You told me once that a leader must always bear the heaviest burden of his people._

Tainted strands of gold fluttered as the blond elf shook his head. He readjusted his grip on the sword. "Summon the rested ones from the castle. I will be there shortly."

"But you have not rested since the battle began!" protested the sentinel heatedly. "Our warriors in the palace are prepared, sire. Give us leave to march ahead."

"No."

Calm steps turned away from the western horizon, and began to wade their way through the bloody carnage of the forest floor. The younger elf followed with agitation.  
_  
That is why I choose to go into this journey with the hope of Man, a journey –I believe you know well – from which there may be no return._

The king stopped before a blood-soaked tree. A tired hand reached out to touch a green leaf glazed with thick grime, hanging heavily down from the branch – the single drape of green among red and black. Sharp blue eyes softened.

"My lord, I beg you."

A gentle touch on the arm made the king turn. He stared at his companion, the piercing gaze making the other elf flinch slightly. Yet the younger elf did not release the king's arm. At length, the king smiled faintly at the worried gaze. He breathed a soft whisper.

"I have seen you severally with the other party." He turned fully toward the younger elf. "What is your name, brave warrior?"

The younger elf sucked in his breath. "Lindel, my lord."  
_  
I tread this path, father, to protect what is dear to me. Just as I know that you will choose your battles in our beloved home to protect what is dear._

The king looked down upon the hand that grasped his bloody armor, and focused his intense blue eyes onto wild younger ones. His voice was soft. "Let me go, Lindel." He searched into the depths of the amber orbs. "I must finish my battle."

"Then we shall ride together." The young jaw tightened with determination. "Your battle is not yours alone, my lord."

The king tilted his head ever so slightly, an ageless smile spreading into his fair features. Ah, how he many a time envisioned his hope riding aside the hope of men.  
_  
Forgive me for not seeking your counsel ere my leave. But I know you would hold me back, in spite of the same call you feel in your heart._

"You have been at the forefront long enough." The grip tightened. "I beg you." The young eyes were anxious, desperate.

The king gazed steadily into the younger elf, unfathomable emotions fleeting in his eyes. At last, he smiled.

"I am king, young one."

The warrior looked bewildered. "Sire-"

"Lindel." The king's voice was serene. He smiled, the pale blues eyes a twinkling dance of sorrow and mirth. "A woodland king does not sit upon the throne that you have seen in Gondor, or other fading regimes of men." He gently pulled away from the grip, and began to wade through the soiled trees once again.

The young guard stood where he was, eyes wide with confusion. The king looked far out into the western horizon, where the last of the golden rays were disappearing into the vast sea of crimson. Much blood had been shed this many a day.  
_  
I am not sorry that I made this decision, for my heart is sure – but I am sorry, dear father, for plaguing your heart with worry once again._

The king lowered his gaze and scanned the vast expanse of carnage around him. His battle had been long. The last of Sauron's forces had poured about the forest in their final strike against the realm of the elves, as had been predicted. It would have been believed as a miracle that the Mirkwood elves managed to repel the evil, protected their forest at the final siege. But Thranduil no longer believed in miracles.  
_  
But fear not for my safety. Trust me to return to you, as I trust you to protect the home to which I long to return – and to await me with open arms._

The king looked back at the young elf and smiled. "Who will protect the people, if not the king?"

The young elf stood absolutely still, as if struck by an invisible blow. Silenced, he followed the king in his gait, head bowed reverently.

_Please do not grieve for my departure, for it pains me to cause you grief. Remember Mithrandir's words; the bird will return to its nest again – my home is wherever you are, and as long as the sun shall rise, I will return to wherever you may be...  
_  
No, the king of Mirkwood did not believe in miracles. He only believed in the strength of the last green leaf that clung onto the crimson-soaked tree, refusing to fall under the weight of moaning blood.

_...for you are my Ada, and I will always be your little Greenleaf. _

The king stopped once more.

The warrior elf behind him looked up. The king did not turn toward him; his eyes remained fixed on the horizon. He then turned back to watch the gentle fluttering of the last green leaf once more.

_And I make the same promise to you which you made to me, many a year ago._

The last leaf did not fall. The elves did not succumb to overwhelming darkness. The last hope survived by a thread; life would return to the great woods. Thranduil breathed out a weary sigh. He then squared his shoulders, raising his head erect. Bloody fingers readjusted their grip upon the great sword.

_We shall meet again._

"When this war is over," said the king quietly, his eyes glittering with indomitable flame, "our home will be bursting with life again. So much that it will be called Forest of Greenleaves."

He cocked his head back to the younger elf. The warrior held his breath upon seeing a flash of a smile.

"Come, Lindel. Let us end this today."

The dark-haired elf followed as the mighty form of the king strode toward the last defenses of Dol Guldur, his blade gleaming with resolve.

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A blue ring of tranquility filled the hall. Somber silence hung in the air, the soft cries of the wounded seeping out distantly from the House of Healing. The scarlet carpet stretched on without end, its royal splendor greeted by deserted quietude.

On the wall on the way to the king's chamber hung a large portrait, its frame incised and sculpted in eloquent patterns of gold and mithril. In the portrait rested a golden lady, an elven maiden with deep blue eyes of dancing stars. Rich cascades of hair tumbled down beneath her waist, flowing over the azure blue fabric that floated in ethereal gentleness. In her left hand was a single green leaf, its vibrant life brightening the fingers that caressed it in a delicate touch. Her other hand rested gently upon her belly. Life was already pulsating within this starry-eyed elleth.

A slender figure of an elf stood before the great painting, eyes raised toward the twinkling smile of the maiden. Azure blue orbs shone softly in the settling darkness of the hall.

"The last battle has just been won," came a quiet voice from his side. The elf turned, his tattered cloak tapping wearily against his calves. He tilted his head slightly, allowing a faint smile to glimmer in the dark. The dark-haired elf before him smiled tenderly.

"You look as terrible as the king."

The blond elf let out a quiet laugh. The laughter was soft and relaxed, easy and smooth – like the soft trickle of blue waters. He smiled at the raised eyebrows of the slighter elf. His clothes were smeared black with grime and frayed at the edges; one could scarcely tell that his attire was once dark green. His long flaxen hair was rough, singed by the harsh fingertips of the wind. His face was pale and thin; the only feature that looked alive was the pair of gently glowing eyes – eyes that sang the inextinguishable song of continual life.

"I could not wait for my horse to recover." The soft tenor echoed in the dark hallway with a clear ring of a bell.

"Traveled on foot, then?" The dark eyes softened as the elf neared him. Reaching out gingerly, she hesitantly touched the haggard face. Her voice was a reverent whisper. "You have saved us all, dear child."

The young elf tilted his head and smiled. The older elf stepped back. "I will utter no welcome ere you see your father." The dark silhouette began to glide back gracefully into the depths of the shadows. "Come by the House of Healing. My doors remain open to you, always."

The blond elf nodded, and turned toward the painting again when he was once more alone. A tired sigh escaped his cracked lips. The glimmering blue eyes regained their gentle dance, the deep echo of a long-forgotten melody, as he gazed up at the portrait. A pale hand of brittle skin reached up to tenderly caress the loving hand that held the green leaf. A phantasmal smile surfaced through wind-whipped lips.

"I am home, Nana."

He turned toward the end of the corridor when a familiar gait pervaded the hall. The footsteps gained speed as they neared the faint blue twilight in which he stood. Bright blue eyes sparkled with a sudden vitality; the same crystalline mirrors looked back into his. A clatter of a sword hitting the floor echoed in the silence of the darkened corridor.

The young elf ran toward the motionless blood-soaked warrior, the harsh, windborne breath catching in his throat as he launched himself into his father's waiting arms.

And above them both, looking down upon the embracing father and son engulfed in the fading blue light, the queen smiled.

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_**The End **_

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,** Author's Note**: Here we are, dear readers. I never planned this story to stretch beyond ten chapters, but it has spun out of my hands and weaved its way here on its own accord, at last arrived at the end of my humble tale. I present a humble bow to all who read my story, and another deep bow to the kind reviewers who accompanied me throughout the course of my little journey. It's now time to close a tale into which I poured out my soul, unworthy though I am. Farewells are sad, and I am going to miss all of you wonderful reviewers so much...but I shall return, kind readers and reviewers, with more little tales if you would bear with me. I regret to say that I cannot answer your reviews – if you'd be so kind as to give me reviews on this chapter as well – due to the absence of a next chapter, but if I do get any, I shall answer them in my next little tale. So I shall say no good byes; thank you all, and I hope you enjoyed my little story! Till next time!


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